#particularly like the last bridesmaid dress & the hand holding

[dozydawn]

Modern Bride, 1978.

[kpopfanfictrash]

Love to Hate (Epilogue)

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Genre: Fuck Buddies / Enemies to Lovers

Pairing: Jungkook / Reader

Synopsis: Born with a silver spoon in your mouth, you've done your best to rid yourself of the taste since you were old enough to walk. Occasionally though, your mother manages to rope you into an obligatory function – or a blind date with playboy billionaire, Jeon Jungkook. Jungkook stands for everything you loathe about the world you left behind, but you can’t deny the spark of attraction between you. Intrigued by the promise of mutual satisfaction, you agree to one night in bed… and quickly realize you’re in far, far deeper than you ever intended.

Rating: 18+

Warnings: dirty talk, mentions of cum pay + pregnancy kink (no explicit content in the chapter) 

Word Count: 4,133

"Y/N, the groom wants to see you."

Startled, you glance up from the water glass you hold in one hand. “Right now?” you ask. “Seriously?”

Lifting a brow, Seokjin casually leans against the door. “He specifically asked for you.”

“But…” You glance down at what you’re wearing. “Isn’t it considered inappropriate to see the groom before the ceremony?”

“That only applies when you’re the bride,” Seokjin says with a cluck of his tongue. “Now, get moving before Hoseok has a full-on panic attack.”

Rolling your eyes, you catch Olya’s gaze in the mirror. Surrounded by multiple make-up and hair artists, she winces when someone pulls a strand of her hair into an up-do.

“Go on,” Olya laughs, waving a hand. “I’m all covered here – promise.”

Although you hesitate, you nod and push yourself upwards. Olya’s sister stands near the fireplace, currently steaming Hoseok’s mother’s dress. According to the schedule she circulated last week, you don’t need to be ready in hair and make-up for another two hours.

“Alright,” you say, setting down the glass. “But tell Hoseok if he’s thinking of running away, he’ll need to get through me first.”

Olya laughs again since the idea is ludicrous. Hoseok would go nowhere without Olya; that much is certain. More likely he’s misplaced his cufflinks, or your brother drank all their champagne.

Slipping your feet into fuzzy slippers, you follow Seokjin outside and pull the door shut. He leads you down the hall, footsteps muffled by the plush carpet beneath you. Passing a large bay window, you glance out at the manicured gardens. The inn Olya found is stunning; especially now, overflowing with flowers and bright hanging lights.

If only the air conditioning were a little less vigorous. Shivering slightly, you wrap your robe tighter and rush to catch up.

Glancing over his shoulder, Seokjin looks you up and down.

“Is that all you’re wearing?” he asks.

You glare back at him. “Are you asking if I have a second outfit hidden beneath the robe?”

Seokjin sniffs. “Well, when you put it like that, you make me sound ridiculous.”

“All I have is my robe and bridesmaid dress.”

“I suppose it can’t be helped,” Seokjin says, coming to a stop. Placing one hand on the door, he turns to face you. “Okay, Y/N – I must warn you before we go in. What you’re about to come face to face with may shock you.”

You lift a single brow. “As long as everyone is dressed, I don’t care.”

Seokjin shrugs in a way that implies it’s your funeral and pushes open the door. Stepping over the threshold, you see Hoseok and pause.

“Oh my god – Hoseok!” you blurt, rushing forward. “You’re bleeding.”

He flinches. “Hey, Y/N,” Hoseok mumbles, a handkerchief pressed to his forehead.

Seated in a gilded chair on the opposite side, he seems thoroughly dejected. Namjoon and your brother hover alongside him, the former steadily searching through the hotel bathroom kit.

Ever since you began dating Jungkook, Namjoon has blended seamlessly into your friend group. As the COO of Jeon Energy, he’s become particularly close to Jason – both are in charge of company operations. Hoseok even asked Namjoon to be his officiant; he has the right voice and temperament for the role.

Sneaking a glance around the room, you can’t help but notice Jungkook is missing. There's no time to wonder where he’s run off to, though – not with Hoseok bleeding before you.

Coming to a stop before him, you cross your arms. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Hoseok insists. “I was trying to get my bag from the shelf, but it got stuck and I pulled it too hard… which was when it came loose and smacked me in the face.”

Sounding utterly miserable, your friend slumps in his chair. You can’t say that you blame him. Olya’s entire family flew in and are likely expecting a groom without a busted face. Shaking your head, you glance at Namjoon.

“Any band-aids in there?”

Namjoon sets the bag down. “Nope,” he sighs.

“We were hoping you’d have one,” Seokjin chimes in behind you. “That’s why I came and got you.”

Slowly, you turn to stare. “Why didn’t you say that before dragging me off? My purse is in the other room!”

“Is there a band-aid in your purse?” Jason asks, hopeful.

“No,” you mutter.

“What about make-up?” Holding out both hands, Seokjin squints and frames Hoseok’s face. “We can wait until the bleeding stops, and then Y/N can cover Hoseok’s bruise with foundation or something.”

“There’s bruising?!”

Hoseok’s alarm prompts Jason to gently pat him on the shoulder. “You hit your head pretty hard, man,” he says.

Exhaling, you tap your foot. “Why is your overnight bag even here, Hoseok? Didn’t you stay with Namjoon last night?”

Hoseok’s face turns beet-red. “Well, uh –”

“He and Olya snuck out,” Seokjin declares.

Shooting him a glare, Hoseok drops the handkerchief to his lap. “That’s private.”

“Not when it’s necessary context.” Seokjin grins, devilish.

Unable to help it, you smile. Hoseok and Olya would be that couple so gone for one another, a single evening apart was impossible. Tradition be damned.

“Okay,” you announce, clapping your hands. “First things first – Jason, go to the bridal suite. Tell Olya’s make-up artist we need to add another person, and for her to swing by when she’s done. Seokjin,” you add, glancing around.

He straightens. “Yes, captain?”

“Did Yoongi drive you here?”

Although the tips of his ears turn red, Seokjin’s expression softens. Nearly two years into dating and still, Seokjin is an utter mess whenever Yoongi is mentioned. Bets have been flying as of late regarding who'll propose first. Your money is on Yoongi – Seokjin’s proposal ideas are so extravagant it’ll take him years to pull them off.

“He did,” Seokjin confirms.

“Good. Text Yoongi and see if he can run out to get cotton swabs, antiseptic, tiny band-aids and –”

The door to the suite swings open behind you.

“No need,” Jungkook says, breezing into the room. Jason follows close behind, holding a large plastic bag. “The front desk had all that and more.”

Seeing him, the errant noise in your mind muffles. Two years and still, this is the effect he has on you. When he sees you, Jungkook comes to a stop.

He’s already in his tuxedo, albeit with both jacket and tie discarded. Taking you in, Jungkook sees what you’re wearing – or not wearing, you suppose. Noticing how short the hem of your robe is, his jaw tightens.

“Thank god,” Seokjin says, grabbing the plastic bag. “You actually found stuff.”

Shaking his head, Jungkook clears his throat. “Hang on,” he says, turning to Seokjin. “When Namjoon said to get help, I went to the front desk, and you went to – Y/N?”

Holding the bag out to Namjoon, Seokjin collapses in the nearest chair. “She always has so much stuff in her purse. Remember that time I needed floss, and she had a whole overnight kit?”

“Okay,” you say. “You can't make fun of my purse if you've taken stuff from my purse.”

Setting the bag down on a table, Namjoon rummages through it. “Okay,” he says, retrieving cotton balls. “Let’s clean off the blood and see what we’re dealing with.”

The rest of them get to work, so you cross the room to stand beside Jungkook. While the others fuss over Hoseok, you glance sideways.

Jungkook is already looking at you.

“Hi,” you exhale.

Casually, Jungkook side-steps until he stands close behind you. Sliding both hands around your waist, he pulls you against him.

“Hey,” he says, low in your ear.

Melting into him, your entire body relaxes. Jungkook’s left hand – gold ring catching the light – drifts lower to rest on your stomach. He pauses, as though searching for something and you feel your lip twitch.

“Dr. Zmierski said we wouldn’t feel them kick until the second trimester,” you quietly remind him.

Jungkook huffs. “I know. I can’t help that I’m optimistic.”

“Mm. And?”

He pauses, as though waiting until finally, he sighs.

“Nothing,” Jungkook admits.

Smiling, you turn around in his arms. Jungkook stares back at you, his gaze full of warmth. The past two years have been a whirlwind. Six months into dating, Jungkook proposed. Some may have found it too soon, but you knew it was him the moment he appeared at your launch party.

Rarely have you been as sure as you were when you said yes. After all, you told Jungkook you loved him only a month into dating. That day is ingrained in your memory – partly because of its sweetness and partly due to the panic which followed Jungkook’s confession.

You had slept at his place for the fourth time that week. Although the two of you had discussed moving in, you deemed it too soon. It wasn’t your alarm clock waking you that morning, but Jungkook, leaning across his bed in a crisp, navy suit.

Still mostly asleep, you managed to open one eye. Dante and Bam (Jungkook’s newly adopted puppy) sprawled across your legs in an sweaty heap.

Brushing a kiss to your forehead, Jungkook started to pull away.

“Don’t go,” you mumbled.

Startled, he looked and saw you were awake. Expression relaxing a tad, a piece of his hair flopped over his forehead. “I have to go,” Jungkook murmured. “I’m a very important person with a very important job, you know.”

“Your full-time job is in this bed. Between my legs. We discussed this.”

Jungkook nearly choked at this, and you stifled a grin.

“You’ll pay for that,” he growled, bending closer. “Tonight.”

“Oo, I’m so scared,” you said and then sighed. “Can’t believe you love your job more than you love me. How tragic.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything as much as I love you.”

Suddenly, you opened your eyes to stare. Jungkook froze in place, seeming to process what he’d just said. A moment passed, maybe two before you gathered yourself enough to speak.

“You�� what,” you breathed.

Jungkook seemed equally shocked by his own proclamation. The moment you spoke though, his expression shifted to one of determination.

“Y/N,” he said softly. “I love you.”

“You… love me,” you repeated, dumbstruck.

The furrow between his eyes deepened. “Was that too soon?” Jungkook said, worried. “I’m sorry if it was. I’ve just felt this way for a while, and thought now might be the right time to –”

Cutting him off, you pulled him down for a kiss – morning breath and all. Eventually, you let go and allowed Jungkook to breathe.

“I love you, too,” you said, matter-of-fact.

Jungkook’s entire face shifted, the happiest you’d ever seen before he kissed you back. Dante and Bam were kicked from the room shortly thereafter, and Jungkook never ended up making it into the office that day (much to Namjoon’s dismay).

If he’d asked you to marry him that morning, you would’ve said yes. Jungkook waited though, until what he considered a ‘respectable amount of time’ had passed. He told you it took him that long to find the perfect ring, but Yoongi said in confidence that Jungkook bought your ring two months into dating.

Your wedding was planned in six months. Not because it was extravagant, but because it took a while to find a weekend everyone you loved was free. A year after the launch party, the two of you were married at sunset overlooking the ocean. Jungkook cried. You say you didn’t, although certain photos betray you being misty-eyed.

The afterparty lasted until the early hours of morning. The only members of your combined family to attend were Jason and Aunt Jeanette – exactly as you wanted it. Jason gave you away, and Hoseok officiated. The wedding was quiet, and you only issued a press statement weeks later as a courtesy.

It would’ve taken longer for your parents to forgive you if a second reception hadn’t been held for their friends. Jungkook’s father wasn’t invited, which you expected. Having met him once, you deemed the experience more than enough. Bitter at being cut out of Jungkook’s life and the company, Mr. Jeon spiraled quickly.

According to Jungkook, his father’s alcohol abuse started when he was young, but grew worse when his mother was diagnosed with cancer. Because of this, he was removed from the board of Jeon Energy. Last you heard, he’d successfully completed rehab, but Jungkook hasn’t reached out. You stand by him on it. If Jungkook ever decides to make contact, you’d support him, but a history like theirs isn’t solved with well-wishes.

It surprised you when Jungkook brought up kids so soon after the wedding. You’d discussed it before but thought Jungkook would want to wait longer to try. He was serious though, when he came to you six months into marriage, and you’ve been trying for four months now to conceive.

Attempts which came to fruition six weeks ago. Dr. Zmierski, your obstetrician, confirmed the news for you last month but since then, you’ve been cautious. Not wanting to pull focus from Hoseok and Olya’s big day, you haven’t told anyone – not to mention it’s still early on. According to your doctor, pregnancies are uncertain before twelve weeks’ time.

Tightening his arms around you, Jungkook brushes a kiss to your cheek. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he murmurs low in your ear. “It’s taking everything in me not to tell everyone you’re pregnant.”

“Well, don’t,” you whisper. “It’s a secret.”

“What are you two talking about?” Seokjin asks, appearing from nowhere. “There are no secrets amongst groomsmen, Y/N.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not one, then,” you joke, turning to Seokjin. “Speaking of which – I need to get back to Olya. I still need my hair and make-up done.”

Letting you go, Jungkook looks you up and down. “You look beautiful to me.”

Near the fireplace, Jason makes a gagging sound. “That’s my sister, man,” he complains.

“Sorry,” says Jungkook, not looking it in the slightest.

Your smile widens, unable to stop. Ever since you became pregnant, Jungkook has been simultaneously overprotective and – well, ravenous. You wouldn’t have imagined pregnancy would turn him the way that it has, but Jungkook's been voracious. Not that you’re complaining – it’s led to some truly memorable nights. And mornings. And mid-afternoons.

Heat steals across your face, forcing you to look away. Jungkook seems to understand where your thoughts are, based on his incorrigible grin.

Hoseok glances between you. “Is that what I’m like with Olya?” he wonders out loud.

“Yes,” choruses the room.

“Oh.” Hoseok considers, then grins. “Well, tough. After today, we’re going to be even worse.”

Namjoon laughs, squeezing antiseptic from a tube. “Okay, Romeo. Put this on your cut.”

Lowering the cotton swab from his forehead, Hoseok obeys, and you exhale in relief. Without blood, the cut is barely noticeable. Olya’s makeup artist should be able to fix it, no problem.

“Okay, now I really should go,” you say. “This was a giant waste of my time, but it’s good to know the groom isn’t running away.”

“Running away?” Hoseok seems offended. “You’d have to physically stop me from walking down the aisle, Y/N. Handcuffs would be involved. A defensive line would be needed. The moon itself would fall from the sky before I –”

“We get it, man, you’re whipped,” Seokjin drones, topping off his champagne. “Y/N, at least take something to drink before you go.”

“No!” blurt you and Jungkook at the same time.

The entire room stops, heads turning to stare.

Cheeks burning, you don’t dare look at Jungkook. “I mean, uh – no thanks,” you say quickly. “The bridesmaids promised Olya not to drink before the ceremony. Don’t want to trip down the aisle.”

“Oh.” Seokjin’s brows furrow. “Okay, suit yourself. Bye, Y/N!”

“Bye,” you call, hastily slipping out the door.

Only halfway down the hall do you allow yourself to exhale. Shit, that was close – too close. It’s becoming more and more difficult to keep this from your friends, especially with the tiny bump beginning to show beneath your dress.

When the door opens behind you, you don’t need to look to know that it’s Jungkook. Warm hands find your waist, pulling you into the closest alcove with ease.

“Jungkook,” you whisper-laugh, pressed to the wall. “Someone will see.”

“Don’t care,” he growls, lowering his head to your neck.

“But I do,” you say, breathless. You’re having a hard time remembering why, though when he does that thing with his tongue.

Lifting his head, Jungkook presses his hips to yours. Cupping your jaw with one hand, he tilts your chin upward.

“This is the hardest thing you’ve ever asked me to do,” he groans. “Not telling people you’re carrying our child. Not bragging about what a literal goddess you are.”

“Goddess? Not princess?” you tease.

“Nope. Creating literal human life warrants a promotion.”

“You can brag all you want in four weeks,” you remind him.

Sinful and slow, Jungkook strokes his thumb down the exposed column of your throat. When your breath hitches, he smiles, other hand grasping your waist to pull you closer.

“The hardest thing,” Jungkook reiterates, his voice low.

“I doubt that’s the hardest thing between us right now.”

Lips twitching, Jungkook dips his head to lightly bite your shoulder. Laughing, you grip his arms tighter and pray no one walks past. When Jungkook lifts his head again, his eyes gleam.

“Careful,” he warns. “Before I drag you back to our room and ruin the ceremony. There’s nothing I want more than to watch my cum dripping from your perfect cunt.”

“If I recall,” you say, breathless, “that’s what got us into this mess in the first place, Jeon.”

“If by mess, you’re referring to our child, then yes. I’d love to make that mess happen again.”

You can’t help but burst out laughing. “Sorry, but I think we need to wait until this one comes out.”

“Oh, I can wait.” Jungkook’s expression is carnal. “I think you’ll find I’m a very patient man, Y/N. When I want to be.”

“And when you don’t?”

His grip on you tightens. “You’ll find out tonight.”

Lifting your chin, you meet his gaze – only for a door down the hall to open. Deflating a little, you glance over his shoulder. A beat passes, then another and when no one appears, Jungkook turns back.

“I really should go,” you say, reluctant. “Olya will want an update on Hoseok. I doubt Jason made it to their room, and I still need to get dressed.”

“It just seems a shame,” he murmurs, focusing on your lips.

“What is?”

“For you to get all dressed up only for me to tear the dress off you.”

Breath catching, you stare. “That’s kind of the point, in my opinion. Now, go,” you chide, gently pushing his chest. “Before you convince me to follow you into a broom closet or something.”

Jungkook lifts a brow. “Aren’t you even curious about how I would convince you?”

“Would it start with undoing my robe?”

“Oh, no.” Eyes glinting, he leans in. “I have something much more effective.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“A heaven on earth,” he murmurs, close to your ear, “I have won by wooing thee.”

Hissing an exhale, you lean your head to the wall. “That’s not fair,” you mutter. “You know what quoting Shakespeare does to me.”

His thumb traces, feather-light, over your hip. “Mhm. In fact, I believe that’s how this one was conceived.”

“How what one was conceived?”

Hearing Hoseok’s voice, the two of you frantically disentangle from one another. Hastily, you straighten your robe as Jungkook steps sideways, shoving one hand through his hair.

“Nothing,” you squeak. “Um, we were just talking about how our relationship was conceived. Remember, when I told you how Jungkook quoted Hamlet?” you say, forcing a laugh.

Unconvinced, Hoseok glances between you.

“That doesn’t make sense.” His brow wrinkles. “You two are acting weird... and you stopped Y/N from drinking. If I know my soon-to-be-wife, there’s no way Olya banned the bridal party from alcohol. Which means – oh my god.” Hoseok's jaw drops. “Y/N, are you pregnant?”

Your expression must be more damning than any response since his expression quickly shifts from astonishment to joy.

“Y/N!” Hoseok cries, rushing forward – only to pause. “Hang on. I want to hug you, but is that okay? I don’t want to crush the baby.”

Chuckling, Jungkook steps closer to slide an arm around your waist. “I don’t think that’s how it works, man,” he says lightly.

“Definitely not.” You roll your eyes. “Not sure how humans would’ve lasted if babies disappeared when the mother was hugged.”

“Right, right.” Hoseok laughs. “So, have you told anyone else?”

“No one,” you say. “And we don’t want to. Not yet.”

His face slowly drops. “So, wait – you want me to keep this a secret?”

“Please, Hobi?” you sigh. “I’m only eight weeks pregnant, and all the guidebooks say to wait until twelve. Anything could happen and we don’t want to get people’s hopes up.”

Exhaling loudly, Hoseok blows hair from his forehead. Now that it’s stopped bleeding, you’re glad to see the cut is hardly noticeable.

“Ugh,” he groans. “You’re asking me to keep a secret from my fiancé on our wedding day, Y/N. That can’t be good luck.”

Jungkook takes a subtle step forward. “I’ll tell you what’s not good luck,” he says, his voice hardening. “It's not good luck to upset my wife, who’s currently carrying my child.”

Hoseok looks at him, amazed. “Are you… threatening me?”

Mildly, you pat Jungkook’s arm. “Apparently, he’s an overprotective father. We’ll have to work on that.”

Never mind the fact that hearing him defend you – even from a non-threat such as Hoseok – sends a shiver down your spine. Jungkook glances at you, offended and you drop him a wink. Appeased, he turns back.

Hoseok groans and rubs a hand down his face, clearly torn.

“You can tell Olya if you want,” you relent. “But no one else – please?”

After another moment, he nods. “Alright,” Hoseok agrees, lowering his hand. “I don’t want to pull focus from Olya today, either – I’ll keep it a secret until after the ceremony.”

“Thank you!” you blurt, breaking free from Jungkook to hug your friend. Squeezing him tightly, you forget Hoseok’s injury until he lets out a grunt. Immediately, you release him and take a step back. “Sorry,” you apologize. “I forgot.”

Slipping both hands in his pockets, Jungkook glances around. “Why are you here, anyways?” he asks. “Shouldn’t you be getting dressed?”

“Olya’s makeup artist wants me to stop by,” Hoseok explains. “Said she wanted to ‘assess the damage,’” he adds with air quotes.

Grinning, you grab Hoseok’s elbow. “Okay, I’ll escort you there. Make sure you don’t see your radiant fiancé before the ceremony – oh, hang on,” you say, coming to a stop. “You already ruined that when you slept over last night.”

Jungkook starts to laugh, while Hoseok looks sheepish.

"We didn't do anything," he mumbles. "Just slept together."

"I don't know if that's better or worse," you tease him.

“I’ll let the others know where you are,” Jungkook says, putting Hoseok from his misery. “I need to head back soon, anyways. Seokjin made me promise to listen to his best man's speech.”

“Good luck,” Hoseok says grimly. “From what I heard, there are several lighting cues. And a twelve-foot-long scroll. I warned Seokjin he’ll be played off with Oscars music if he goes over ten minutes, but we’ll see.”

You laugh at the mental image, although Jungkook looks stricken. Patting him on the arm, you turn to leave, but Jungkook reaches out and grabs your wrist. Pulling you towards him, he brushes a kiss to your forehead.

Surprised, you look up. “What was that for?”

Hoseok grumbles something about PDA in public places and leaves you. Left alone, Jungkook smiles down at you.

“I just want you to know,” he says softly. “I’m happier than I ever imagined I could be.”

Heart swelling, you stare back at him. Stepping closer, you feel his arms close around you and let your head rest on his chest.

“That makes two of us,” you tell him.

A beat passes, quiet until Jungkook says, “How long do you think until he cracks and tells Olya?”

“I bet she already knows.”

He laughs, the noise rumbling through you. “My money’s on after the ceremony.”

“Wanna bet?”

“You’re on.” Brushing his lips to your temple, Jungkook pulls back. “Win or lose though, one thing’s for certain.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

His arms tighten, lowering his face to yours. “I’ve already won. I have you.”

Unwittingly, you melt. “If you keep saying such cheesy things…”

“You’ll what?”

You smile. “I’ll never leave.”

“Perfect,” he murmurs, kissing you again. 

Author's Note: Thank you for reading and to everyone who has been following this story since the first chapter! I hope you enjoyed :) This is the last part of this series. I do not have a tag list, so please do not ask to be added or ask about updates. My writing progress can be found in my updates schedule, linked in both my header and FAQ!

[Series Master List]

©kpopfanfictrash, 2022. Do not copy or repost without permission.

[avengerscompound]

Small Gods: Spring Thaw - 12

Spring Thaw:  A Bucky Barnes Fanfic

Spring Thaw Masterlist | More Small Gods PREVIOUS //

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Rating: E

Word Count:  1839

Warnings: smut (MF, oral sex, hand job, 69)

Synopsis: Bucky Barnes hates winter.  He always looks for the first signs of the ice thawing and new life growing.  When that desire for the end of winter brings to him the god of the spring thaw, he discovers a brand new reason to get through winter.

Chapter 12

The time that Bucky had with you felt particularly short this time.  Not because it was any less time than usual.  It was a particularly cold winter and the power that kept you here actually seemed to last longer than normal.  It was just that you were both so busy planning the wedding that each day seemed to fly by.  Even the long drives North were full of conversation as you talked about guests, and vows, and what colors you planned to wear.

The two of you stopped regularly to look at potential venues and had long discussions about menus and cake flavors.  Each conversation made Bucky feel lighter.  He was sure that the wedding plans were going to give him some level of anxiety when it was just him, but with you by his side, he couldn’t help but feel happy and excited.  He was going to experience a big life event, and he was going to do it with someone who loved him for who he was.  Not some idealized version of who he once was or who he might be.  But this him, with all the baggage and flaws he had.  This version of who he was that was hurt, but not broken.  A long way from perfect, but trying to be better.

By the time he’d gotten as far North as he could go with you before the magic no longer worked to hold you to the world, the two of you had decided on quite a few things.  You had a dress design with a tailor who also had your measurements and knew that you wouldn’t be able to return for the final touches for a year when there would only be a few weeks to finish it off.  They’d been fairly unsure about that, but paying in advance with a bonus had helped convince them.

You’d asked Sharon to be your bridesmaid.  You didn’t really know anyone else and while Sharon had been a little surprised she accepted for Bucky’s sake and agreed to work with the dressmaker to make sure both your dress and her bridesmaid’s dress turned out how you wanted.

You’d chosen pale blue and white as the main colors.  Bucky liked the idea - it both reflected the winter that was ending and spring that was just starting.  You’d also said you wanted lots of flowers, but you’d wanted the table settings and bouquets to be full of spring wildflowers.  The list of flowers you’d asked for including things like sweet peas, peony, cornflowers, delphinium, cosmos, anemone, and lisianthus, and you’d cut out pictures of different table settings and bouquets you’d like and stuck them in a book so that Bucky could take them to a florist.

The book also had a few cake designs you had liked that all had various blue and white floral decorations.  Some of which were real flowers, while others were made of delicate gum paste.  The two of you had ranked them in order of shared favorites, but Bucky was going to speak to bakers to see what they thought they could make that fit the theme and was unique to both of you.  You and Bucky had made stops all the way North at every bakery you saw and tried various cake flavors.  Bucky had loved trying the different flavors.  Cake had come a long way since he was a kid.  The fact that you’d lit up when you’d heard there were floral flavors added to the fact he was already excited for something outside of just a chocolate or yellow cake.  You’d chosen three flavors together and the idea was to have them on three different layers.  Lemon and lavender, chocolate and rose, and strawberry and elderflower.

You’d picked a venue, not just for the ceremony but also the reception.  Both would be at the falls, and even though the ceremony would be bitterly cold, Bucky loved the idea of having it where the two of you had first gone away together.

The thing that Bucky had enjoyed planning the most was the menu.  He was so into cooking and flavors and trying new recipes, and he loved going through different options for the different courses with you.

While the last week always carried with it that kind of melancholy of knowing you could disappear at any moment, he was also excited and hopeful of the year to come.

“Maybe you should take the ring,” you said, as the two of you lay in bed together.  He was still in that post-sex haze, his heart thrumming in his chest as he came down from his orgasm high.  You lay with your head on his chest, trailing your fingers down to his stomach.  You had that gorgeous sex messed look and still glistened with a sheen of sweat.  The ring in question sat glittering in the light from the fireplace that was still roaring opposite the bed.

“You don’t want to wear it?”  Bucky asked.  “Do you have a New Zealander - New Zealandish?  New Zealandite husband I don’t know about?”

“They mostly say Kiwi,” you giggled.  “And no.  I just… don’t always usually - appear - with the same things I disappeared with.  I’m worried it will be one of the things I lose.”

“Okay,” Bucky said, running his hand over yours.  “I’ll wear it with my dog tags.”

You smiled and nosed at his cheek and your hand moved up to his chest and curled around the chain that hung around his neck.  You tugged on it lightly and he leaned in and kissed you.  It was a slow and deep caress of his lips over yours and you hummed softly and grazed your teeth over his bottom lip.

When he pulled back he took your hand and lifted it to his lips.  He kissed your palm and each of your fingers, before pulling your ring finger into his mouth and slowly sucked it, pulling the ring off your finger with his lips.

You moaned and ground your hips against his thigh, your cunt still dripped with come, both his and yours, and it smeared on his leg as your rubbed against it.  “Fuck, Bucky,” you whimpered.

He chuckled and took the ring from his mouth.  “Doesn’t take much, huh?” He said.

You laughed and pushed him.  “You can talk.  You gave yourself a semi doing that.”

Bucky pushed himself up on his elbows and took off his dog tags.  “Yeah?  You wanna see what you can do about that?”

You grazed the back of your knuckles down his chest and over his stomach.  His muscles rippled under your gentle touch.  He groaned softly but kept his attention on the chain holding his dog tags, unclipping the joiner, and sliding the ring onto the chain.  By the time the chain was safely back around his neck, your hand was wrapped around his cock and you were slowly pumping your fist up and down.  He groaned and let his head fall back on the pillow as his cock hardened in your hand.

You kept your head resting on his chest and jerked him off as you slowly rolled your hips and ground against his thigh.  It was a lazy intimate foreplay that he loved in a whole different way to when it was hot and needy, or soft and romantic.

You pressed a kiss to his chest and swirled your tongue around his nipple, and he gasped and his cock jumped in your hand.  You sat up and spit on his cock, the wet letting your hand move more easily up and down.  “Dirty girl,” he groaned and bucked up into your hand.

You hummed and dropped your head down, taking his cock right down the back of your throat.  He gasped and jerked up under you, pushing his cock further down your throat.  You gagged and pulled back, but just enough to free your airway.

Bucky grabbed your thighs and dragged you over his chest so your pussy was right over his face.  He lapped greedily at your sex, his tongue swirling over it, exploring all your folds.  He could taste himself on you, the salty tartness of his come mixing with the musky taste of yours to make a strong and heady cocktail that made him moan needily and arch up under you.

You moaned around his cock and bobbed your head up and down, hollowing your cheeks and sucking each time you pulled back.

You each slowly brought each other to the edge.  Bucky thrust two of his fingers inside of you and pushed them against the soft spot inside you that always made you shudder and cry out.  The sounds you made as you sucked his cock sent soft vibrations through him, adding to the pleasure that was coiling through him.

You started grinding down on his face.  He knew you must be overstimulated and near the edge.  He sucked greedily on your clit and dragged his fingers over your g-spot again and again.  Your cunt began to spasm around his digits and your clit twitched in his mouth and with a loud cry you came on his face.  Your legs trembled and he kept going dragging your orgasm out.

“Stop, Bucky,” you panted.  “It’s too much.”

He stopped immediately and you climbed off him, taking a moment to catch your breath as you moved down between his legs.  “You can stop if you need to,” Bucky assured you.  “We don’t have to keep going.”

You shook your head.  “No, I want you to come too.”

You crouched between his legs and began bobbing your head up and down on his cock as you gazed up at him.  He tangled his hands in your hair as he watched you.  He relaxed and gave himself to the pleasure surging through him.  Your tongue flicked over his foreskin and into the slit of his cock and you massaged his balls.  They tightened and his cock began to throb in your mouth.  Bucky let his head fall back and with a low groan, he came, releasing into your mouth.

You moaned and swallowed it all before crawling back up and taking the position on his shoulder again.  He looked down at you, a sleepy contented feeling taking over him.  “You can sleep if you want to,” you said.  “You look so tired.”

“I want to stay up with you,” he complained.

“It might not happen tonight,” you giggled.  “Neither of us can just stay up for sixty hours, just in case.”

“Maybe I’ll close my eyes for a little while,” he said.  “Under duress.”

You kissed his jaw.  “If I do go, know I love you and I can’t wait to see you again.”

“I feel the same way.  I’ll speak to you soon, and when you’re back here, we’ll be getting married.”

You smiled and kissed him once again, settling back against his chest.  He drifted off with the comforting weight of your body on his, and optimism of the year to come.

// NEXT

[wienerbarnes]

Much Ado About Nothing (5/6)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 2,747

Warnings: none! wedding stuff? 

A/N: happy new year yall hope everyone had a safe one! das all imma say tho im keeping my mouth shut about 2021 i aint risking shit anyway enjoy this chapter :P

MAIN MASTERLIST | MUCH ADO MASTERLIST

For being given a week, the ballroom looks immaculate. Satin drapes and tablecloths of cream and white cover the room, gold and olive green accents strewn throughout. The handful of tables in the room have large centerpieces of small white flowers, thin branches, and delicate leaves, as well as a lace trim around the vase they rest in. A warm toned light makes the room look bigger than it is and the dancefloor welcoming for everyone.

The wedding guests include the team, of course, some of Sharon’s family that were able to make it in such short notice, and anyone’s dates were welcomed. Sam brought a date himself, Sharon extended the invitation to some agents she’d been training over the last few months, and she told you invite those who worked in the lab with you.

She insisted, in fact.

Sharon banished you and Nat to the ballroom, while she finished getting ready, wanting to have a few minutes by herself before the wedding started. You assume Steve felt similarly when you see Sam and Bucky enter the ballroom and merge together with the rest of the team. You linger by the bar, hoping to get a bit of liquid courage before the party starts, but to your dismay, the bar doesn’t open until after the ceremony.

You also don’t want to take a seat because you’ll be one of Sharon’s bridesmaids, along with Nat. You and her wear matching warm brown dresses with a slit on the side, tying in with the neutral and woodsy tones going on throughout the rest of the wedding. Sam and Bucky wear brown bow ties and you assume they’re taking the role of Steve’s groomsmen. You pray you don’t have to walk with Bucky.

As more and more people take their seats, you find Nat and meet the other boys at the back of the room.

“Sam already claimed me.” She tells you cheekily as she loops her arm through Sam’s bent elbow.

Of course he did. You sigh and begrudgingly loop your own arm through Bucky’s as he smirks. While the group of you wait for the music to start to indicate your time to begin walking, you take in the man standing next to you.

He smells crisp and clean, his cologne smelling fresh and flooding your senses with lavender, rosemary, and cedarwood. His bicep is ginormous in your hand and you can feel the warmth radiating off of him through his suit jacket that he wears. He cleans up really nicely. Not that you’ll tell him, but you’ll definitely be thinking about it for the rest of the night.

Bucky’s mind goes through a similar thought process. Your skin is shiny and smooth, and he imagines you applied lotion while getting ready with the other girls. Maybe there hints of glitter in whatever cream you use, because to him, it looks like you’re glowing. You smell like the sweetest of roses and juiciest of fruits, and you look good enough for him to take a bite. He won’t give you the satisfaction of a compliment - God knows the argument that would lead to - but he imprints this vision of you in his mind to remember.

Finally, Steve enters the ballroom and makes his way towards the front of the room and any few people left standing take their seats. As people settle, Steve adjusts his jacket and glances over the room to take in all of his loved ones in one room. He glances over to where John sits alongside Leila and Kennedy, the two other lab interns that work under you, he’s come to learn about. He briefly wonders what John is thinking about, if he thinks his plan worked, if he thinks Steve is going to cause a huge scene in front of everyone, accusing Sharon of cheating in some big explosion. He wonders what John’s reaction will be when he witnesses him marry the most beautiful woman in the world, kissing her to solidify their love.

He can’t wait.

Soon enough the music starts and Nat and Sam begin down the aisle, you and Bucky following after. For someone that has hated the idea of love for so long, walking down the aisle like this feels really great. You’re not sure if it's the anticipation for the bride, or the decorations, or the huge hunk of handsome soldier guiding you down to the front of the room, but it makes you feel tingly all over. Almost makes you want a wedding of your own. Almost.

As Bucky makes his way down the aisle with you on his arm, he meets Steve’s eye, who gives him a smirk that looks a lot like I told you so. He ignores it, though. He knows he’ll get picked on later, but for now, he enjoys having you so close to him. You’re close to him outside of the lab, outside of a mission, outside of an argument. You’re close to him, holding onto his arm like you’re his girl in a sweet silence. He can almost get used to this. Almost.

Once everyone’s in their place, the rest of the guests rise as the music changes and Sharon enters the ballroom. Her dress is beautiful; a lacy brassiere top to connect the flowing train, all of the silk following her walk, making her elegant and glowing. Her hair is lightly curled and there are a few white flowers pinned around the back of her head, matching the rest of the room.

The officiant reads everything they have to and Steve and Sharon share their vows, causing everyone in the room to shed a tear or two. Nat and Sam find it particularly amusing to see you and Bucky wipe a few tears as well, seeming to get foggy eyed in spite of their hatred for love. They’re too busy silently teasing their friends to notice the fume coming from John’s ears, realizing his plan didn’t work the way he wanted it to.

There’s still time, he thinks. Maybe Steve didn’t want to make a big, public fuss. Yeah, once everything is over, he’ll take her upstairs and they’ll talk and soon enough they’ll announce that they’re marriage is over! Shorter than the Kardashians.

Finally, Steve and Sharon kiss to seal their marriage, sharing their official first kiss as husband and wife. Cheers and clapping erupt in the room as the couple makes their way back down the aisle, Nat, Sam, you, and Bucky following after. The lights dim a bit and the bar opens as the music changes to encourage people to mingle and dance until the couple emerges once more.

“What’s the matter, don’t like weddings?” You tease John, coming up behind him, your voice making him jump from leaning against the bar the way he was.

“Uh - No, not really.” He says, turning to face you, feeling awkward as he talks to his boss after trying to sabotage her best friend’s wedding.

“They grow on you.” Bucky’s deep voice makes him jump once more as it comes behind him, forcing him to turn away from you and face him, staring at his towering stance.

“Uhm -” John stumbles as he realizes he’s cornered against the bar by you and Bucky.

“Did you really think you’d get away with it? I mean, you’re surrounded by spies and an artificial intelligence system that records everything in the tower.” Bucky tells him.

John’s eyes widen as they glance between you and Bucky, realizing where he went wrong in his plan. I should’ve figured out a way to hack F.R.I.D.A.Y.! Or at least get rid of any footage of what I did!

“Not to mention the fact that Steve and Sharon are too disgustingly in love with each other to even fall for the kind of charade you put on. In my lab, nonetheless,” You add, “Some kind of unfunny joke by an ex-lab intern.”

“Ex?” John confirms.

“Oh, yea. Leila and Kennedy, too. I don’t want to waste my time training and giving experience and advice to the kind of people that lie, play around, and cause mischief in a lab and in a tower where some of the most important and delicate information in the world is handled. If I wanted that, I’d have Barnes, here, as an intern.” You tell him.

“Hey, I thought we were on the same team here -” Bucky tries to interject, but you smack his arm to get him back into the focus of their conversation with John.

“Anyway,” Bucky continues, “Why don’t you do us the favor of getting out of here? We’ll tell Steve and Sharon that you’re sorry you weren’t feelin’ well and had to head out early. Unless, you’d like for me to get them and bring ‘em over here?” He slings an arm over John’s shoulder, leading him over to one of the exit doors, as John nods his head in agreement, accepting his defeat.

Once John has left and the wedding is officially safe again, Bucky meets you back at where you wait at the bar.

“Nice job, McGeek.” He tells you, leaning on the bar next to you as you turn to face him better.

“Could say the same to you. He looked real scared there at the end.” You giggle.

“He should be, he almost got Steve’s ass kicked by me when Sharon first told us the whole situation.” Bucky tells you, leaning just a bit closer to you.

The bartender comes over to them asking what they’d like to drink. “Whiskey, neat, please. How bout you, Geeky?” Bucky says.

“Vodka cran.” You order.

“Really? That’s your drink of choice?” Bucky teases.

“What? What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, I thought you’d pick a drink that’s actually good, is all.”

“And here I was revelling in the fact that this was the longest conversation we’ve had where we’re not at each other’s throats.” You tell him.

“Well -” Bucky’s cut off by the dimming of the lights and change in music as Sharon and Steve enter the room again to share their first dance.

His words are forgotten as he watches his best friend dance with his bride, the two of them looking happier than Bucky’s ever seen. Bucky feels a smile bloom on his own face as he watches on; he’s so happy for Steve. He knows this is all he’s ever wanted. The girl, the marriage, the house together, the kids in the future. The happy ending. And he’s happy that despite things - or people - trying to get in the way of that, Steve still got the happy ending he deserves.

He peeks over to see you have a similar smile, admiring the love shared between your best friend and his. He gets lost staring at you as the DJ is heard inviting anyone else to join the newlyweds on the dancefloor.

He asks before his brain can filter his mouth, “Do you want to dance?”

Your head snaps over at him, a surprised expression on your face, and Bucky prepares for you to make fun of him.

“Sure.” You tell him.

He doesn’t risk saying anything that might change your mind, only grabbing your hand softly and leading you to the dancefloor where other couples have begun to fill in. The slow music continues as his hands find their place on the curve of your waist and yours rest on the tops of his shoulders. He feels warmth and tingles flow from the placement of your hands through his suit jacket, down his arms, and through his entire body. He looks at you and how close your face is to his, quite enjoying having you so close in his arms like this.

“Do you remember what we were talking about last night?” She finally breaks the silence.

He hums in indication that he does and for her to continue, “So, you really don’t hate me or anything?” You ask.

“No. I don’t. Actually,” He chuckles humorlessly, “I know you like me.” He confesses.

Tension floods your body. How does he know?! “No, I don't! Not anymore than reasonable, I mean.” You deny.

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, his body still swaying with yours with the music, “Oh. Well, you have Steve and Sam fooled, then, because they, uh, had me convinced.” He tells you, trying to play off his incorrect assumption.

“Do you like me?” You ask, drawing yourself just a bit closer to him, his arms moving from your waist to the small of your back.

“Uh, no, no more than a friend, I mean.” Bucky lies.

“Oh. Well, you have Sharon and Nat fooled, as well.” You tell him.

The two of you chuckle softly with each other at the whole situation, an attempt to hide the disappointment in each of your chests at the thought of unrequited feelings. Bucky glances back up to meet your eyes once more, eyes flickering down to look at your lips, in time to see you take your bottom lip into your mouth with your teeth. He looks back up at your eyes to catch you staring at his own lips. When your eyes meet his again, it's as though the two of you have a silent understanding. An understanding that you were both lying, and an understanding that you both really want to kiss each other right now.

So he does. Bucky leans in seemingly at the same time you do and presses his lips against yours in a sweet yet fiery kiss. His hands push a little harder into your back to bring you closer and your hands move to touch his neck and cheek, ensuring that his face won’t leave yours anytime soon. Everyone in the room has since disappeared; there are no wedding guests, there are no decorations, there is no music, only you and Bucky.

His lips are soft, softer than you were expecting, and he tastes of peppermint and the sip of whiskey he had, all mixed with a taste that’s so him. His taste and his smell and the feel of his hands on your back and his chest against yours makes you want to melt to the ground in a puddle of mush. You can’t believe you waited so long to kiss him.

Your lips are plump and soft. Your lipstick is fruity but he can taste the sweetness of cranberry behind it and a sweetness that’s all you. You’re the rarest candy he’s ever tried and he’s not sure he’ll ever get enough of it. A part of his mind wants to ignore that they’re still in public, though it certainly doesn’t feel like it, and just kiss you silly for the rest of time.

The two of you finally pull away after what feels like forever and you both can’t help but lick at your own lips, savoring the taste of each other. Before either of you can say anything to follow what just happened, another voice interrupts, “About time.”

You both turn to see Tony and Pepper, her with an admiring smile and Tony with a shit-eating grin. The two of you feel warm as you realize the rest of your friends that occupy the dancefloor are also staring at the both of you. Nat smirks from her place in Bruce’s arms, Sam winks at Bucky over the shoulder of his date, and Sharon and Steve are almost on the verge of happy tears at the sight of their best friends finally getting to be happy with each other. Even Clint and his wife smile at the two of you.

“What are you guys looking at, huh? Never seen a guy and gal dance together?” Bucky barks, Brooklyn accent slipping out as he chooses to pretend none of them saw the kiss that you and him shared.

“Not you two.” Steve says.

“Oh, whatever! What are you guys, five years old?” Bucky asks only to be met with his friends giggling.

“Whatever. Make fun of us all you want. I don’t care.” You speak up, curling your hands around the back of Bucky’s neck.

He looks back at you to meet your kind eyes with a gentle smile. Their friends continue to tease on, but you and Bucky only have eyes for each other. He ignores them and chooses to kiss you again, already craving the taste of your lips on his and the feel of your body in his arms.

[jimlingss]

Sugar and Coffee [17]

Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18

➜ Words: 4.6k

➜ Genres: 99.5% Fluff, 0.5% Angst, Pâtisserie school!AU

➜ Summary: It isn't hard to be a pâtisserie chef, but it's not a piece of cake either. It seems like for you in particular, life keeps throwing in one wrench after another. It always finds ways to make your sweets bitter. The cherry on top is Jeon Jungkook — a rival with a sensitive sweet tooth who always finds ways to complain about you.

cr.

Marriage seems to be the ultimate goal for many.    And you have to admit its appeal — cute invitations tucked onto tables by bouquet centerpieces, flowers blooming and budding all around the aisle and arch, long trains of wedding dresses, the tulle of the veil, the glowing smile of both bride and groom radiating happiness.   Love is in the air and it’s hard to hate it. It’s difficult to remain bitter.   For a brief moment in time, you forget about pushing the idea that romance is sickly — that the emotional dependency will cripple you when affections inevitably run out, that the imminent insecurity and jealousy will only act to lower self-esteem, that heartbreak is always impending.   Just for the slightest of seconds….you forget to hate love.   “Jungkook, Y/N! Get in here!”   Sejeong eagerly motions you over and you exchange an expression with the boy beside you before scattering over hesitantly. Yet, she fervently welcomes you, shuffling over and draping her arm around your shoulder. Jungkook stands beside you, smiling wide for the camera.   “One. Two. Three.” The wedding photographer snaps several pictures of all four of you.    “Is this okay?” you ask in a slight murmur in-between shots, still worried considering you didn’t really have a place in this wedding. The only people you know here are the two of them, Jungkook, and Chungha who was somewhere preparing to walk down the aisle.   “Of course, it is!” Namjoon zealously assures with a grin. “You guys are our official wedding cake makers. We can’t forget about you two.”   “Chungha requested that we take as many pictures as we can. She won’t mind, trust me.” Sejeong smiles, excited for her sister’s wedding, and she squeezes your shoulder. “It’ll be a great way to look back on the memories.”   There are a few more pictures taken and when the photographer gives the ‘okay’ sign, the married couple enthusiastically runs out of the frame. “Okay, now just our two interns!”   You and Jungkook awkwardly scoot together, but then the photographer raises his head and suggests you both to go even closer. And that’s enough for Jungkook to throw his arm around your shoulders, pull you close enough that you nearly stumble into his chest and he flashes a grin as the camera snaps while your expression is still stunned.   The next picture, you stand on the tips of your toes with the hopes of overcoming Jungkook’s height and teasing him later on for being short. But he quickly notices you and his grip on your shoulder tightens, attempting to pull you down for the following photograph.    “Hey, don’t try to push me down!”   You try to shove his hand off, but the effort is futile and Jungkook giggles. “You’ll never be taller than me, Y/N.”   “Psh.” You stay on the tips of your toes, putting your hand over your head like that’ll somehow create the illusion your height is greater than his. But then Jungkook goes on his toes as well, lifting up his chin. The two of you laugh, using one another to keep balance and stand as high as possible.   Namjoon and Sejeong grin at your banter and the photographer is smiling as well, continuing to take pictures at different angles and distances with no end in sight.   “You got something on your nose, Jeon,” you lie.   “What?” His heels touch the ground again and his hand lifts to his face. You steal the opportunity to jump straight up as high as you can, putting your hands on his shoulders.    The wedding photographer captures the picture, then one of Jungkook turning his head in shock as you’re still in the air. Then the one where you’re descending and he opens his arms, catching your fall. And the one where you turn to each other, smiling wide as you gaze at each other.   The photographer doesn’t say that these are the best candids he’s taken.   “My name is Jung Sowon and this is Stand By Me.” The woman with the sleek, long, black hair stands at the stage. The band begins to play behind her, drums and guitar crescendo. The wedding singer parts her mouth to sing the first note and the melodic song fills the venue. “When the night has come. And the land is dark. And the moon is the only light we'll see.”   You linger by, watching and swaying to the rhythm.    “Would you like some champagne, ma’am?”   A familiar voice beside you interrupts the music, but it’s a smooth timbre that you recognize.   You turn to find Jungkook, offering you a flute of bubbling champagne and you laugh, taking it.    “Thank you, good sir.”   Jungkook’s dressed in a classic suit — white shirt, black blazer and trousers, shoes and tie. It’s simple, but it makes him look good, hugging his form well. You can’t help musing that he cleans up well. But maybe that’s because you helped him do his hair. It’s combed down as usual, but with the bangs slightly curled in, a bit of his forehead peeking out. Jungkook was screeching this morning and whining like a baby, afraid your straightener would burn his skin, but you’re glad you held him down and did it.    You’re in a blue dress yourself, one that stops at the knees and is ruffled at the neckline. You didn’t think you looked particularly special, but by the way Jungkook was staring at you earlier, you’re not sure what to think anymore.   “The ceremony’s starting soon. We should go.”   You follow his lead, sipping on your champagne. “Hey. Don’t get drunk. It would be embarrassing.”   He scoffs, playfully eyeing you. “Who do you think I am?”   A grin spreads into your face. “I’m just saying.”   The two of you find your seats at the left, near the back. The parents of the groom and bride gather together too, taking their spots at the front rows and the other wedding guests begin trickling into the garden area.    You lean over to Jungkook, keeping your eyes straight ahead, but murmuring underneath your breath, “When do you think it’ll be over?”   “I don’t know. Half an hour to an hour? Why?”   “I’m kind of hungry.”   “Course you are,” he says back but then begins looking around. “Do you want me to ask one of the waiters to bring around those appetizers again?”   “No, I’m fine.” You giggle. “I was joking. I’ll be fine, Jungkook.”   But concern lingers in his eyes. “Are you sure?”   “I won’t starve,” you assure, not knowing he would take it so seriously. Jungkook is attentive to you these days and you’re not sure how to feel……   No. That’s not entirely true. You do know how you feel. But you won’t say it out loud.   Instead, you focus your attention on your surroundings.   The venue was absolutely lovely. It was still a part of the resort, but in a more secluded area that’s away from the prying eyes of tourists and resort guests. A few meters away was the ocean. The tide that was kissing against the shore, saltwater bubbling and fizzing every so often. It was the best of both worlds — the man-made garden inside the tent gorgeous and contrasting against the beach background outside. The floor is verdant grass, soft underneath your feet, and the flowers are in full bloom and wrapped around the ceiling and wedding arch.    The reception area you had peeked at earlier was even more incredible.    You can’t wait until the sun sets and the fairy lights turn on.    “This is actually so nice,” you sigh out, speechless. “You know, for the longest time, I wanted a garden wedding too. Like pink peonies would be one of the themes or focuses or whatever. They bloom during late spring, early summer, so that would be perfect since the weather would be good too.”   Jungkook glances at you. “Do you still want that?”   “I’d probably never get married, so it doesn’t really matter.” You shrug to him, snapping back to reality.    “Why not?”   “Love’s gross,” you mutter quietly as the last people take their seats. “Plus, no one wants me.”   “I want you.”   Jungkook says it forthrightly, without a beat of hesitation, instinctively. As if you asked him what his name was. You look at him, staring wide-eyed. Jungkook gazes back at you, unwavering.    Your heart stutters. And you quickly look away from him.   “You shouldn’t joke about that kind of thing.”   He sulks. “I’m not.”   But none of you are able to speak another word. The music interrupts when it begins. The classic wedding march plays and everyone turns around to watch the bridesmaids and groomsmen walk down the aisle with bright smiles. Sejeong and Namjoon wave at the two of you as well as they stride past.   And soon, Chungha is the one walking down with her arm hugging her father’s. She’s in a beautiful, white ball gown, practically glowing as the trail of her dress follows. The woman looks the happiest she’s ever been and as envious as you are, the joy is overwhelming.    Her soon-to-be husband is wiping at his eyes and when they meet, they hold one another’s hands, giggling.   "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…”   The officiant addresses the couple, reading a long passage from his book for twenty minutes about what love and marriage means. Then there’s an exchange of vows and it becomes emotional as they read their professions of love to one another.    You feel the sting of your eyes that you try to dispel away.   You forgot love could be so innocent and comforting. For so long, you’ve demonized it in your mind, discredited the emotion as silly mistakes. But with the way the couple stare at one another underneath the arch — so genuinely in love — you realize you had forgotten love could be so sincere.   Not every love ends in heartbreak. Not every relationship ends in heartache.   You had forgotten.    And you find yourself stealing glances at Jungkook.   “Sometimes I wonder how it’s possible that I became so lucky. That I was there on that day. At the right time. And I met you,” the groom inhales a soft breath, staring at his soon-to-be wife. “Not everyone can marry their best friend, but I’m happy to be one of them. There’s no one I’d rather become a family with than you.”   The rings are exchanged as tears pool in eyes and then the pronouncement of marriage is made. After the kiss, the closing remarks are said and everyone stands up, cheering at the newly married pair.   Chungha is laughing, her husband grinning hard and they run down the aisle together.   Love is in the air and you’re glad that you’re experiencing it with Jungkook by your side.   //   Weddings are stressful when you’re the planner or the couple, but it’s fun as the guest. One of the perks that you and Jungkook especially have is being able to pig out at the table without having to mingle or interact with others. It’s not like you know anyone here, so the pair of you have resided by the snack area.   “The catering company didn’t do a bad job.” You lick off your fingers.    Jungkook hums and then turns to you with his arm extended. You look down, finding him holding a chocolate strawberry and immediately, your lips part. He feeds it to you and you taste it on your palette while shaking your head.   “Not as good as yours.”   “Of course.” Jungkook grins, relishing in your praise.   “Where’d you find that?”    “Don’t freak out.” He pauses, letting you suffer in suspense on purpose. “There’s a chocolate fondue fountain over there.”   Immediately you whirl around to where he’s indicating and an audible gasp tears from your throat. Jungkook’s eyes crinkle in mirth and he follows after you, chiding you not to run.   The milk chocolate is falling at three different tiers, grandly cascading downwards in a smooth liquid. You grab a plate and begin to stack skewered strawberries, marshmallows, banana slices, rice krispy squares and pretzels onto it. And the two of you end up crowding the fountain, dipping the food in one at a time to indulge.    “God, I love chocolate.” You could drop dead right now and ascend to the afterlife fulfilled.   Jungkook holds back a laugh. “Don’t eat too much. You’re going to ruin your appetite and get a stomach ache.”   “Doesn’t matter,” you dismiss quickly. “I’m living my best life here, Jeon. I could die happy right now.”   “You better not.” He smiles. “I still need you around to cover for me when I mess up.”   Jungkook has more of a sensitive sweet tooth than you do, so he slows down his chocolate consumption sooner than you even have plans of halting. But he enjoys watching you eat, filling your cheeks with chocolate-covered fruit and sweets. He feels satisfied somehow when he watches you consume to your heart’s content.   He eventually starts dipping what’s left on his plate to feed you, not allowing it to go to waste.   “Ah.”   Your lips part and he feeds you again, but this time, the chocolate accidentally drips onto Jungkook’s hand. He curses, pulling up his white sleeve to not get it stained, but before he can grab a napkin to wipe himself off, your hand clasps around his wrist.   Without thinking twice, you pull his hand to your mouth and you lick off the chocolate. Your warm tongue runs along his skin, cleaning the mess. It takes only three seconds. But in the meanwhile, your pupils flicker up to look into Jungkook’s. Directly. Boldly.   His Adam’s apple visibly bobs in his throat. Sweat begins to collect at his hairline but by then, you’ve already let go and turned away. You’re nonchalant. Your attention returns back to the chocolate fountain and you’re fucking humming, continuing to pig out.   Jungkook cusses in his mind.    You’re a vixen. A damn witch.   But there’s no time to react or linger. Not when you’ve obviously moved on and haven’t thought much about your action. Not when the married couple arrives at the reception area and everybody takes their seats again.    “Thank you everyone for taking the time to come here for us.” Everyone raises their glasses of champagne. “We really appreciate it.”   “I’d also like to thank my older sister, Sejeong, and Namjoon for making such a beautiful wedding cake.” Chungha grins. “It was a surprise, but it’s better than I could’ve ever imagined and it was one less thing to worry about, so thank you. I knew I could trust you.”   “Please,” Sejeong says aloud, “It’s my job.”   There’s shared laughter and the bride carries on, “And thank you to Jungkook and Y/N as well for helping out with my sister’s shop and making the cake. I’m sure it would’ve been a lot more stressful without your help.”   You’re bashful under the attention, but soon enough, the speeches and toasts move onto different people in the room. The maid of honour shares a long story about how the couple met and the best man wishes the pair a wonderful future.    Not long after, the food finally gets served as the wedding singer continues her performance.   You get mashed potatoes as an appetizer and steal part of Jungkook’s scallop dish. He feigns a glare, but then the two of you are splitting each other’s food family style to get a variety of tastes. The main course consists of filet mignon for Jungkook and pumpkin ravioli for you.   You enjoy the meal for the most part, only slightly uncomfortable by the old woman in a floral dress who keeps glancing at you and Jungkook with a smile. And right before dessert is served, the stranger across the table seems to crack.   “How do you two know the bride and groom?” her voice croaks as she nosily asks.   “Oh. We just helped make the wedding cake.”   “We’re the bride’s sister’s interns,” Jungkook adds.   “Nice to meet you.” Her dainty, wrinkled hand shakes your hand and Jungkook’s. “I’m the groom’s great aunt. Such a lovely wedding, isn’t it?”   “Yes, it is.”   “The food’s great too.”   The old woman's eyes glimmer of mirth. “So how long have you both been together?”   You choke on your ravioli — Jungkook wheezes mid-sip of his water, coughing and sputtering. He pounds his chest. The pair of you look at one another, eyes rounded and wide.   “Oh...we’re not...uh….”   “No need to be shy.” Her hand bats the air. “There’s no need to hide anything, don’t worry.”   “Umm...well, we’ve known each other for a while now,” Jungkook says and you give him a look. Technically, it’s not a lie.   “Are you both considering getting married any time soon?”   The proposition gives you whiplash, but after working in the food industry for so long, you’ve perfected maintaining a calm disposition. Even if the smile you offer is stiff. “Oh, no. We’re still very young, so I don’t think so. Not at all.”   “There’s nothing wrong with getting married when you’re young,” she tells. “Back in my day, kids got married at eighteen. Right out of school. Better early than never was always my motto. If you know you’re good for each other, there’s no point in waiting.”   “Uhhh….” You’re not sure what to say to that.   Luckily, Jungkook jumps in and easily uses his infamous Jeon charms. “If I propose too soon, she’ll get bored of me. I’d prefer to keep her on her toes a little while longer.”   The old lady laughs heartily. “That’s a dangerous game, boy. If you don’t put a ring on it soon, she might just run off with another boy and you’d surely regret it then.”   He shakes his head. “She wouldn’t. It may not look like it, but she’s head over heels for me. She’d come chasing me.”   That seems to poke the old lady’s funny bone, but your mouth has dropped open. “I would not.”   “Sure about that?” Jungkook smirks impishly. “I might just run off with another miss if you’re not nice enough to me, Y/N.”   “Psh. I’d like to see you try, Jeon Jungkook.”   “You two are just too cute.” The old lady sighs wistfully. “Reminds me of my late husband and I. I know love when I see it.”   The meal eventually ends and the old lady wobbles off to mingle at another table with people she’s more familiar with — but as she bids farewell, she chides Jungkook to marry you already. And when she’s gone, he shifts to wiggle his brows at you.   You tell him that if he gets down on one knee tonight, you’ll slap him.   Fortunately, Jungkook has no such plans. Instead, the pair of you spend your time watching the sunset on the beach. The sky is painted in tangerine and rosy hues, the ocean reflecting the horizon and once it becomes dark enough, all the fairy lights flicker on. The venue becomes illuminated by the dim and soft mosaic of colours.   You feel ticklish and pink inside — stomach full of food, alcohol making it easy to loosen up, the amorous atmosphere a hatchery for hopeless romantics. You watch the first dance, listening to the smooth voice of the wedding singer and the warm sounds of the band. “Wise men say only fools rush in. But I can't help falling in love with you.”   The bride moves in sync with the groom, her dress gliding across the floor. Their hands are clasped together, feet moving slowly, eyes staring at one another. It’s magical to be an observer and it makes you wonder what it’s like to be there, to know you can live the rest of your life with the person you’ve chosen.   When the others trickle onto the dance floor, you watch them too.   And Jungkook soon returns, having gone to the bathroom and then taking a quick walk around. He finds you enjoying yourself in a rare carefree state, simply swaying to the melody in your seat.   His smile becomes tender.   “Go dance.”   You scoff. “I’m not going to dance by myself.”   “Then dance with me.” Jungkook takes your hand, pulling you up on your feet. “Come on,” he convinces when he sees your reluctance. “This is the only time I’ll ever dance. Are you really going to give up on this chance?”   You let him pull you on the floor right as another song begins.    It’s an older song — another slow one — fuzzy sounds that melts all around you. The wedding singer’s voice is sweet, drums providing a steady beat. The staccato of the bass is resonant and velvety with the lithe sound of the piano. “Stars shining bright above you. Night breezes seem to whisper ‘I love you’. Birds singing in the sycamore tree. Dream a little dream of me.”   But what should be romantic is terribly awkward.   Jungkook’s hands are placed tensely on your waist while yours are plopped on top of his shoulders. It’s as if you’ve been propelled back to the past — fifteen years old at a school dance with your crush, not sure where to look, how close to be, how to touch one another and be polite about it.    You wince when he steps on your foot.   “Ow.”   “Sorry.”   “I thought you danced, Jeon Jungkook.”   The boy’s brows knit together. “Who says?”   “I thought you could do everything,” you tease and this time, he’s the one lightly scoffing with a small smile tugging at his lips.   Soon, Jungkook steps on your foot again and you mutter cusses in his ear. It makes him laugh, but you swear the third time he steps on your toes, it’s intentional.   “Say ‘Night-ie night’ and kiss me. Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me. While I'm alone and blue as can be. Dream a little dream of me.”   The crowd on the dance floor is moving together — old married couples and the young ones holding each other securely to kids twirling with each other. Eventually, the music relaxes you enough that you melt into Jungkook’s arms and he falls into a rhythm, no longer stepping on any toes.    Your arms are looped around his neck, your fingers locked together. His hands are tenderly on the dips of your waist. The two of you sway with one another. There’s nowhere to look but directly into his eyes and you find his gaze fixed onto yours. As if your irises are the most interesting kaleidoscopes in the world.   Jungkook makes you nervous. He makes your palms sweaty, your steps unsure and seemingly unpracticed.   “Can you stop looking at me like that?” you murmur. In this party of people, only he can hear you above the music. It’s much too intimate.   “Like what?”   “Like you love me.”   “But I do love you.”   He tugs you closer and you search his eyes, brows furrowing unintentionally. You quietly scold him, “You can’t say that, Jungkook.”   “Why not?” he asks in a whisper.   “Because what does it mean for us?”   “Can’t friends love each other?”   “I—”   “I’m kidding.” Jungkook smiles gently, the corners of his mouth quirking. “Well, not really.”   The slow song encases you and Jungkook into a private bubble. The dim lights make his doe eyes sparkle even more than usual — like there are actual stars captured within them, like he’s snapped a picture of the night sky on a Summer night and kept them there. “Stars fading but I linger on, dear. Still craving your kiss. I'm longing to linger till dawn, dear. Just saying this.”   You never realized how much you love Jungkook’s eyes.   “Hey, can I ask you something?” he pipes up again in a gentle murmur as to not disturb the delicate moment between you two. “It’s not about me, but I have a friend who doesn’t really know what to do...”   “What is it?”   “He’s in love with his best friend who’s head over heels for some other guy and is still heartbroken over him even after so much time has passed. My friend really loves her, but he doesn’t want to ruin the friendship they have because it’s important to him.”   You hum a low note, corners of your mouth pulling. “Well, if this best friend is dancing with your friend, sharing the same bed together every night, and spending their days together, she’s probably not heartbroken after that guy anymore.”   Jungkook’s grip on you tightens, not too much that it hurts, but securely enough to keep you from floating away.    He swallows hard. “So you think he should go for it?”   “I think he should take it slow,” you hum. “Even if he values their friendship, once you’ve caught feelings, there’s not much you can do. I have personal experience on this topic, so I would know.”   “Would you now?” A boyish grin spreads into his cheeks, one that makes him look even younger.    “I think this friend of yours should take his chances.” You lean your head on his shoulder, relishing in his body heat. “Sounds like his best friend might just agree.”   Jungkook holds you close. The two of you sway together, enjoying the moment.   “Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you. Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you. But in your dreams, whatever they be. Dream a little dream of me.”   The fuzzy song fades as it ends. The last note holds the air. And with it, the spell breaks.   You pull yourself away from Jungkook’s arms, offering a small smile. It’s awkward, so you quickly turn away to return to your spot at the table. But then….   There’s a call of your name—   “Y/N.”   As you spin around, Jungkook tugs you in by your waist. Your lips meet his.   Your mouths collide together right as another song begins — one you don’t pay any attention to, where you can’t even discern the lyrics. Not when your heart rate is pounding in your eardrums.   It’s a soft brush of the surfaces of your lips, a timid touch, but soon, you’re eagerly deepening the kiss. You’re surrounded in Jungkook and everything that is him — the scent of fresh laundry and his cologne, giving into the velvet texture of his soft lips, reveling in the warmth of his skin that brings heat onto your cheeks.   Your hands slink to the back of his neck, sinking your fingers into the little hair there. Your eyes shut and Jungkook sneaks in a long peek at you, soaking in your pleasured expression before his own lids flutter closed. Your nose bumps together and he easily tilts his head, kissing you tenderly, but eagerly underneath the pretty lights.    Jungkook kisses you and kisses you, like it’s all he’s ever wanted to do. But really, he should’ve done this a long time ago — maybe that time underneath the mistletoe all those months ago.   So he makes up for the lost time, tasting your lipstick curiously, smearing it shamelessly, getting it all over his own mouth.    It’s hot, breathy, and when the pair of you pull apart, the thin thread of saliva between your mouths break. You stumble back on your heels, catching yourself on weak knees. You try to remember how to breathe properly.   Jungkook’s own chest is heaving and he shakes his head, wearing an infectious smile. He wipes his lips wet with your saliva haphazardly with the back of his hand.   “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to do that for.”   You laugh, grabbing his tie roughly. You tug your best friend closer. “Then shut up and do it again.”   The both of you are in the middle of the dance floor, underneath the lights, but none of you pay any mind.   This time when Jungkook kisses you, he’s grinning against your mouth and you can’t help but smile too.

[sunflowersteves]

Unforgivable || ch. three

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: Your life with Natasha seemed like pure bliss until the team mistakes you for an agent gone rogue. 

Author’s note: Here’s the last part! I’ve loved this journey trip of angst. I hope you all enjoy! Imma do a little extra with a smutty honeymoon ;))))

Warnings: angst, fluff!, swearing, angsty plot, basically the whole team is a dick

Main Masterlist

Previously:

Now you had to make a choice. Forgive Natasha or never see her again? On one hand, you wanted to be back in her arms again. Smelling her shampoo and kissing her temple all while that passion and love fill your stomach. But on the other hand, the Avengers had threatened you and your life. Natasha thought they were right. Natasha believed them, believed that you used her for information.

Although, you know you’ve already made your decision.

~~

Natasha had been holding up in her room ever since she took you to the bus station. She knew she needed to keep her distance from you but she couldn’t help but sulk. She also didn’t want any confrontation with the team, she was still super pissed. Honestly, she would probably break each of their fingers right now.

She realized that you were it for her. You were the light of her life, the sunshine that shone through her terrible days. She remembered how after particularly hard missions, you wouldn’t ask and question. You’d immediately run a bath and take a loofah, gently rubbing up and down her skin.

Sometimes she would stare at you in awe, no one has ever done that before. Most of the people Nat has been with, they’d just brush her off. You on the other hand would pamper and comfort until she was happily smiling. 

Natasha would just stare blankly in front of her, the darkness of her past haunting every movement she took. You could always tell when a mission went bad or it uncovered some dark secrets. You would wrap your arms around her waist and just hold her there while she softly cried into your arms.

Normally the two of you would spend time making dinner together, laughing, and dancing around in the kitchen. However, on the days that the two of you would need each other, one of you would make the other their meal.

You always made sure to have Nat’s favorite dish ingredients on hand. You’d stir the pasta around with a fork and the pesto sauce was poured on top. On days that were particularly bad, you would feed her yourself. You’d wrap the fork around the noodles, “Open wide, sweetheart.” Tears would always prick her eyes at your gentle voice and open her mouth, watching her chew it all down.

On good days, the two of you would cuddle and watch as many movies as you could. Her favorite to watch with you was horror because you’d jump in her arms and she’d coo at you until you were no longer scared. Sometimes you would go to parks and swing together on a swing set. Nat would bring a picnic basket with both of your favorite snacks and you’d endlessly tease each other.

Natasha had never realized how much she loved you until you were gone. Sure, she was aware that she was in love with you but not hopelessly so in love that she never wants to spend the rest of her life with anyone else but you. A couple of tears escaped down her cheeks, a full sob running out of her mouth.

All she felt, as she was curled up in a ball on her bedroom floor, was heartbreak. The depth of her stomach would twist and turn as she kept thinking about you running away from everyone. Her organs felt tangled in one another and she felt like her lungs were collapsing in on her. She was drowning. Drawing in the sorrow that was the loss of the love of her life. She was drowning in the anger and disappointment of herself and her friends.

She believed their word over yours. The ones who made the mistake of thinking you were from Hydra. She should’ve trusted you. She should’ve immediately run after you, assuring you that she believed you.

But she didn’t. She didn’t run after you and envelope you into her arms. She let her friends spoil her mind into thinking that you manipulated her.

A light knock at the door disrupted her thoughts. Was it you? Had you given a tiny ounce of forgiveness? She lifted herself up from the floor and pulled open the bedroom door. “Clint.” She sighed, her stomach plummeting to the ground. She almost slammed the door in his face but he kept his foot wedged.

“Nat-”

“I don’t want to hear it, okay?” Nat sat back down onto her bed, pulling her knees up to her chest. Heavy sobs raked over her body and her shoulder flinched as Clint tried to comfort her. He did it again but this time she let him, Natasha’s wails were compressed with hurt and sorrow.

He pulled her into his arms and rubbed his hand back and forth. “I am so so sorry, Nat. I’m so sorry that we made you believe that she was a double agent. I should’ve looked better into it. This isn’t an excuse but I’m going to be honest with you. I’m in love with you, Natasha.” Her eyes snapped towards his, a gasp leaving her mouth. Her tears had slowly stopped and it slowly turned into rage.

“So that means you can just shove her away as you did? It means that because you love me, you get to drive others away?” She tried to get out of his hold but he only seemed to hug her even harder. He shook his head at her question. Sure, he was in love with Nat but he genuinely thought that you worked for Hydra.

“When I saw how happy you were, my whole world crashed. When you were introducing us to your girlfriend, I mean, I was jealous to the point of trying to find dirt on her. So when I found that file, I wanted it to be true.” She sighed, the anger was still coursing through her veins at each word he spoke but she kept quiet. Nat knew that he wasn’t done with what he was saying.

“But then I saw how hard this hit you. The pain and suffering and desperation that this whole situation made me realize how dumb I was being. I want you to be happy Nat,” He turned to look at her face, her eyes flickering between his. “Again, none of this is an excuse for my actions. I just want you to know my side. If it helps, I had all of us go apologize to her and explain your side.” 

Her whole body perked up, she grabbed onto Clint's shoulders, “What? What’d she say? Is she oka-”

“I’m not going to lie to you Nat, she looked hurt. But she seemed to understand your side of the story. We also want to make it up to her, if you two decide to rekindle.” She nodded, a couple of tears streamed down her face as she thought about the heartache you were going through. She knew how hard you took things sometimes.

“What about you, Clint?” He waved his hand up dismissively, assuring her that he’s going to be fine. “I’ll be okay. I’m still very much in love with you but I’ll be okay. I’ll move on,” A bright smile caressed his lips at the thought of his plans tonight. “I even have a date with this really cute girl named Laura.” 

The two of them giggled and talked a bit about what she was going to do to try and win you back. However, if you wanted space she'd give you that in a heartbeat. Clint eventually left to get ready for his date leaving Nat back alone in her room.

She was contemplating running in your arms right now or just letting you think over things, so she could contact you.

But what if you were thinking the same? What if you were waiting for her to react?

Oh, fuck what if’s, Nat thought. She could sit there all day wondering what you would do and how you react. Why doesn’t she just get up off her ass and ask you? Worst comes to worst and you slam the door in her face. Although, that’s still an answer.

She picked herself off the bed and grabbed her things. She ran out the door to try and run down the long hallway but was stopped by a body slamming into her. She immediately went to see if the person was okay but then she froze.

There you were, right in front of her. Your hair was framed perfectly around your face, your tear-stained cheeks were wet but Nat couldn’t help but see how adorable you looked. Sunshine had radiately off of you despite being in a very big predicament. Your clothes were rushed to be put on and your shoes weren’t even tied.

“Nat-”

She interrupted you but launched herself in your arms, screaming almost at the top of her lungs. “I am so so sorry! I shouldn’t have believed them. I should’ve come running to you. I’m so sorry. I will do anything, and I mean anything if it means you’ll give me a second chance. But also if you want me to leave, I’ll-”

You immediately shushed her, stroking her bright red hair. “I’m not going to leave. I love you, Nat. I love you so so much. I can’t see spending my life anywhere else but with you.” Large sobs from the two of you filled the air. Her grip on you was tight like you were going to disappear if she let go.

“I’m not going to forgive you easily though. We have a lot to work on and a lot to work on with the Avengers but I’m willing to give it a shot.” She held you even tighter before, and you let go of her hold just a bit. Your heat ached as a whimper left her mouth but you quickly filled her reassurance with a light, feverish kiss. 

~~

Three years later

“Tony, if you don’t shut the fuck up right now, I will stab you.” Tony was all choked up to see Nat in her wedding dress near the altar. Tony just rolled his eyes at Nat and kept sobbing to himself. “I will cry all I want.”

Now it was her turn to roll her eyes, “Just don’t fuck up the wedding photos.”

Wanda was next to her in her bridesmaid dress and a small bouquet. The music started to play and the chatter died down. A gasp left her lips as you came into view, your dad having his arm locked around yours.

You were utterly beautiful. Your white dresses pooled largely around your feet, the flowery patterns had skated up and down the dress. Your veil was covering your face but Natasha already knows that you were the most beautiful person in the world.

You walked down the aisle and your dad let go of you, walking towards Nat with a fit of giggles. She lifted up your veil and gasped, her heart swelling with love and adoration. 

The ceremony went on, saying the ‘I do’s’ to each other and holding hands. The smiles never left your faces. If you were being honest, you forgot about everyone else in the room. The only thing you could stare at was her in her wedding dress.

“You may now kiss the bride.” Natasha didn’t waste any time and she pounced on you. She grabbed your face and pressed her lips against yours. The chapel erupted with glee and shooting at the two of you officially being married. 

Her hands snaked around your waist and your nose occasionally bumped. Her tongue tasted like honey, light fireworks erupted in your stomach at the feeling of her around you. She moved her head back, the two of you panting and the cheers still roaring in your ear.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

~~

Natasha Romanoff: @natasha-danvers

Unforgivable: @messuhp @dark-heart-no-soul @jenny-song @kangerland @izalesbean

Permanent Taglist: @hailmary-yramliah @kitkatd7 @captainchrisstan @angstysebfan

[t-o-m-hollands]

PARIS PART II of III

Warnings: Swearing, heavy drinking, smut. +18.

SUMMARY: Timmy is an artist living in Paris in the 1950′s. You come to him to model for a painting but you have an unusual demand for the artist.      

R E A D    P A R T   O N E    H E R E

1st of October, 1952 - Paris.  

It’s Tuesday and Timothée is tired. It’s 1 in the afternoon but his head is still aching from last night. It's been seven months since you left Paris, and somehow, life has gone on.  

The sun is shining mercilessly bright and he wishes he was back in his studio, so he could hide from it. But it’s a place he spends as little amount of time as possible in as of late. Instead he’s sitting on a bench just below Sacré-Cœur, wearing last night's clothes, a mess of curls framing his tired face. In one hand a cigarette and in the other a freshly printed copy of the Tatler. On the front page is your face, radiantly beautiful, in a wedding dress and veil, diamonds in your ears and diamonds on your head. Next to you is your Freddie, looking straight at the camera, unnecessarily smug; or so Timothée thinks. Inside the magazine there’s an entire montage in the happy couples’ honor, complete with exclusive pictures from the high-society occasion.  

“Dubbed the wedding of the season this intimate affair took place on a drizzly September morning between baron Freddie Fairfax and his blushing new bride. Freddie, who is the son of the 9th Earl of Abington, was overheard by some guest remarking over the beauty of his new bride, who was wearing a bone-white couture gown signed Christian Dior and accessorized with a diadem, an heirloom of the Fairfax family that has been in their possession for generations and borrowed to the bride on this special occasion. The nuptials were exchanged in St Margaret’s Church, gloriously decorated with bunches and bunches of yellow chrysanthemums, aconites and white lilies, in front of an audience including representants from most of the royal households of Europe and the English social elite. The reception took place at the Earls 25,000 acres estate in Oxfordshire and upon arrival the guest were served ice cold”    

Timothée stops reading and throws the magazine down on the bench. For a long time he sits there, watching as people climb their way up the stairs to the church, and smoking cigarette after cigarette until his throat feels sore. It’s a fine October day, the air crisp and clean. The leaves on the trees changing from emerald green to vibrant shades of orange and yellow. Some have already fallen to the ground. A melancholic part of him, the majority in fact, can’t help but to think of it as a metaphor of his life. He’d met you and the entire world had seemed in bloom. Now it was rapidly fading.  

Someone sits down beside him on the bench, but he ignores them, mind too far away to care.      

“You are monsieur Chalamet, I presume”. With a startle he looks at the person next to him. It’s an elderly lady, possibly in her 80’s, with hair in a sophisticated updo, burgundy lips and sparkling eyes. She’s clothed in an expensive fur coat and with diamonds on every finger. He suddenly feels dirty in his unwashed clothes.        

“Yes madam, and who are you if I may ask?”  he answers politely.    

“Marguerite Beauchêne-Wright” she introduces herself, stretching out her heavily bejeweled hand. He shakes the elderly woman’s hand. It feels strangely cold in his.    

“And what can I do for you, madam?”    

She doesn’t answer at first but looks down on the magazine between them. “Pretty, isn’t she?” she asks. He doesn’t answer at first, doesn’t know what to say to that. “Yes, very pretty” he answers at last.  

“It was a terrible wedding” she continues. “Terrible”.    

“And how do you know the bride?” He asks, feeling rather uncomfortable

“She’s my grandniece” she says and looks up at him again, studying his face. “She lived with me for a period, here in Paris. I believe you know one another?”  

He doesn’t answer her question, knows she already knows the answer to it, instead he asks “and why was the wedding so terrible?”  

“Oh” she says and swats with her hand, but there’s a look of worry on her face he can’t look past. “When the bride’s wearing the wrong dress, or the bridesmaids won’t behave, or the food’s terrible, well those are all things one expects at a wedding. But when the bride marries the wrong groom, well, that’s not quite as easily overlooked. Then you find yourself actually praying for an ill-fitted gown instead”.  

He stares at her in confusion. “What do you mean, the wrong groom?”  

She observers him with shrewd eyes. “Isn’t it obvious?”  

“Madam, with all due respect, I not sure what you want with me” he says slowly.  He finds himself wondering if maybe he’s still asleep and this is a strange dream produced by too much absinthe. If he’ll perhaps wake up in a ditch soon, with a hangover from hell.

“But don’t worry” she says with a kind smile “We can still fix this”.  

  He wonders if he should leave, for this is not a conversation he wants to have, especially not with a complete stranger. But despite himself he says “there’s nothing to fix”.  

Then she takes him by surprise, for she grabs the magazine from the bench and hits his arm with it, not hard, but enough to get a reaction out of him. “Ow!” he bursts out, “what was that for?”

“For you to get a grip of yourself! Don’t be so defeatist, I told you we can fix this. You still love her and she loves you, not that absolute buffoon”.  

“It’s too late, she’s already married him. And I'm over it” he lies, trying to keep on to some kind of dignity in this bizarre situation.  

“Don’t be ridiculous, you haven’t moved on from any of it, I know an idiot in love when I see one, and you’re it”.  

“Gee, thanks” he mutters, rubbing the sore spot where she hit him with the magazine.  

“Now, what are we going to do? Are you going after her?”  

He stares at her in disbelief, “no, she’s married, I told you, it’s too late”.

“Do I need to use this again?” she threatens and holds up the magazine, but there’s a humorous gleam in her eyes that makes him smile.    

“Why are you trying to help me?” He asks.

“Well, quite frankly dahling, I'm not trying to help you. But that girl, my dahling niece, is miserable.” There’s sadness now in her old eyes and something twists uncomfortably in Timothée’s chest.  

“It’s that bloody women's fault, her mother!”  She bursts out, taking him aback. The venom in her voice almost palpable, “She’s whispering ideas of self-sacrifice in her ear. Not that her father’s any better – defeatist! That’s the only word to describe him! Never could fight for himself. To think that my dahling sister could have given birth to such a fool. And now my grandniece...” she trails off, sadness in her voice again.    

“Now your grandniece has a title and is married to one of the richest people in England.” He states firmly.    

She throws the magazine down on the bench again and swats her hand in front of her, as if to get rid of a particularly annoying fly, and the diamonds on her hand sparkle in the sun. “Yes, but it’s not what she wants. Is it? What she wants is, well, it’s you.”    

There’s something so penetrating about her eyes and the way she looks at him. Crinkled and full of wrinkles her face may be but those shrew eyes shine bright as ever. They are very familiar eyes, a strong remembrance to another pair of eyes that haunt his dreams.  He looks away,    

“But she did decide to marry him, that was her decision. Doesn’t mean I don’t understand it, but there’s where we’re at. There’s nothing to be done.”    

“I saw the painting you made of her” She says in a voice that make him think she’s fishing after something and in the corner of his eyes he can see her inspecting him. He lights a new cigarette and avoids her eyes. “The one with yellow tulips?” she adds, making it sound like a question.    

Ah    

“’s just a painting” he mumbles, feigning nonchalance.    

She continues to observe him before sighing. Then, she pats him on his arm and in a gentle tone she says “we both know that’s not quite true”.    

And suddenly he wants to weep. Weep in a way he hasn’t since he was a child. Without holding back, without grace or shame. Weep, and subject the poison from his body. But he doesn’t. Clenching his hands around the rim of the bench with all of his strength he manages to keep the storm at bay. Only when he feels he has his emotions locked up and under control does he look at her again. Her familiar eyes, full of sympathy, observes him and something inside his chest is screaming.  

“Could I paint you, madam?” he asks with a smile, to lighten the mood.  

She throws her head back in laughter. “Oh, how sweet of you, but I'm afraid my modelling days are far behind me. But if you ever need something, a listening ear or” and she looks at his dirty clothes “or perhaps a loan, then feel free to keep in touch.”

She gently pats his shoulder, then gets up and leaves.  

  *  

February 12th, 1953  

In a dimly lit club in Pigalle Timothée is writing a letter. Smoke surrounds him and the dim light shining through gives the illusion of a halo around his head. It’s a bad place to conduct letters in. People around him are cheering and talking, singing and howling with laughter while a modern band plays experimental jazz. It is rowdy, and it is wild, and it’s the perfect distraction.  

It’s a shabby sort of place, where the floors are sticky with god knows what, the music is loud and the liquor comes cheap. Timothée thinks it’s heaven.

A man sits down next to him in the bar and orders a Gin Rickey.  

“Terrible, aren’t they?” He questions in a broad American accent, gesturing toward the band as the bartender hands him his drink. Timothée nods in agreement and gestures with his empty glass to the bartender, implying need of a refill of his whiskey neat. The barman catches his gesture and pour him a new glass of Glenlivet and hands it to him just as the band begin a new tune.  

“Hardly Duke Ellington” he says to the stranger and nods to the scene. He folds the unfinished letter and puts it in his pocket for later. The other man snorts in response, “that’s putting it kindly” he says, amusement in his voice. Timothée takes a good look at the stranger. He looks to be about his own age and is wearing a nice grey suit and hat tilted to the side. With a square jaw, a tall stature and piercingly blue eyes he could pass for a movie star. Lighting a cigarette, the man then offers one to Timothée, who gladly accepts the offer in a gratified manner. He’s been running low on his own stash these last few days.    

They start talking. Discussing the differences in American and French jazz, the best drinking holes in Paris and who really is the great American writer. Timothée claim it’s Hemingway (“mark my words, he’ll win a Nobel price one of these days) whereas the stranger argues for F. Scott Fitzgerald (“the way he writes about the promise of the American dream, no one can rival Fitzgerald” he proclaims and Timmy wants to argue that surely he writes about the failed promise of the American dream, but they move on to a less dividing topic). The discuss bourbon and whiskey and rum as the bartender refill their glasses and the liquor no longer burns his throat and his eyes have adjusted to the smoke in the room as they mindlessly chat on. Timmy finds out that the strangers name is William and that he’s originally from California though went to boarding school in ‘good ol’ England’ but that he’s spent the last year in New York. Also, that he’s just separated from his wife. Timmy in turn tells him of his own life in broad strokes, his American mother and French father, art school and life as a painter in Paris. A few drinks later still and they get a hold of an old, wooden table at the far back of the room and so they cross the room, avoiding collision with the dancers, all in various states of drunkenness, and they begin a game of cards. The jazz band plays on.      

William turns out to be quite the gambler and Timothée, who’s been walking around for months now with a feeling that he has nothing more to lose, can’t help but bet on the few things he has. They laugh and play and share stories of their youth while the jazz band play louder and louder. Perhaps the good company and distracting surroundings goes to his head, because a couple games in and Timmy is indebted to the American. He has had a bad hand overall as of late and he tells his opponent as much. The man in turn laughs and leans back in his chair, his cards in one hand and a cigar in the other. He takes a long drag from it before blowing out smoke across the space between them. Around them people dance to the chaotic music.  

“Hell, I’m feeling generous tonight and you’ve been good company. Not many people I can talk to here in France, my French is terrible. So, you’re a painter, how about a painting, then? And I’ll write the whole thing off.” he suggests and smiles broadly.    

Timothée hesitates. His apartment has been unusually empty of paintings as of late. The few ones he had he sold just last week in order to meet rent. Inspiration to paint new ones had not been with him. Not since you left. Everything he had managed to paint had come out drained of colour and bleak and he ended up losing interest in it.    

He only has one painting left.  But he couldn't, could he?

“Alright” Timmy agrees. Because what choice does he have? Maybe it’s time to put this ghost to rest, once and for all. Your gone and no wishful thinking or practices in gratefulness can change that simple fact. You’re married and there’s nothing he can do about it, despite madame Marguerite’s words of your misery ringing in his ears. There’s nothing he can do to save you now. You’ve made your choice, and all there is now is the aftermath. The post mortem. You have to live with that decision and so does he. Even if he doesn’t want to. So, why should he keep the painting? The baron got to keep the real you after all, and the only thing he has is the picture of you. A picture that can’t talk or laugh, can’t smile or play with his hair or touch him or dance to Chopin or lecture him about classical music. A painted image that he has stared himself blind at for these past few months, grieving that he cannot bring it to life, while the baron got the real you.    

His unfinished letter burns in his pocket but he ignores it.  

And so they leave, on unsteady legs and heads swirling with liquor, and the jazz band plays them out to their worst tune yet as they exchange the smoky club air for a cold night’s breeze.  

“Fuck” William mutters as they enter the night. “Fucking freezing” he adds and shivers in his nice suit. “No worry” Timothée slurs “not far”. They stumble their way across the cobblestoned streets. “You damn Frenchmen” the other man mutters after some distance, “always got to fucking walk everywhere, taxis where invented tor a reason, you know!” Timmy snorts and points to a building just a couple of meters away. “Live there, yeah?”  

And with a lot of effort they help each other up the stairs to the loft. Once inside William asks if there’s any brandy, for ‘recovery purposes after their hellish journey’ and so, they drink some more. They start discussing politics, a bad idea all around, before venturing into the less dividing topic of French cinema. It’s not long after that they’ve both fallen asleep, William slung on the sofa, his long limbs hanging over the edge, and Timothée’s sprawled out on the carpet, the bottle of brandy clutched firmly in his hand. (For recovery purposes.)  

A few hours later and Timmy’s hurling down the toilet. He wants to check his head for bullet holes, that’s how bad it’s aching. After having cleaned up, although there’s nothing to be done about the mess of curls that is his hair, he joins the American in his living room.  

William is sitting up on the sofa, but it looks very much as if he’s just woken up, hair a mess and a 5 o'clock shadow, his expensive suit all wrinkles now. The sun is shining mercilessly bright and its rays lights up the room as he rubs his eyes. “Coffee?” he requests in a gruff voice. Timothée nods, before realizing that any movement of the head is a terrible idea as pain shots through it.  

“What a fucking night” William mutters some time later as they drink their coffee. “And I’ve got a meeting with the lawyers this afternoon, not the sort of thing one should do hungover.”  

“Oh yeah?” is all Timothée manages to get out, head still too sore to put any thoughts together.  

“Yeah, divorce proceedings”  

“Rotten business” Timmy states and the other man laughs. “Rotten business, indeed” he agrees and cheer him with his mug of coffee. “Still, a necessity that must be endured.” He looks around the loft. “But I’ll have a new painting to hang in my bachelor pad, that’s something to write home about!” he says, more cheerful now.  

And fuck, he’d forgotten that part.  

Feeling nauseous again he puts down his coffee cup. “Yeah, you’ll have a new painting” he agrees, mostly to fill the silence.    

“Haven’t seen any of your work yet though” William considers. “You might be shit. My five-year-old niece might be a better painter, and I’ve just promised to write off your debts to me” he adds and laughs. Timmy gets up, there’s no putting this off. “I’ll go get it and you’ll decide” he says and heads for his bedroom.  

The paintings leaned against the wall.  He doesn’t turn it, doesn’t want to see it one last time. There’s not enough brandy in the world for that recovery. Something inside his chest is rioting against the very idea of handing the picture over to anyone else, but he pushes down the feeling of nausea and heads back to the living room, canvas clutched firmly in his hands.  

“Well” he says and holds it up, so the other man can see. “Here’s your winnings”.  

William looks up at it and then, the strangest thing happens. His entire being freezes, his mouth ajar, stuck mid-movement as he had begun to say something before having seemingly been struck by lightning. Bells are ringing alarmingly in Timothée’s head, going off like sirens. Somethings wrong.  

He observes Williams glossy eyes taking in the portrait in front of him, mouth still agog in chock. He places to painting on the dingy little table but William still doesn’t take his eyes off it. He gets up slowly and walks over to the painting, as if in a trance, like a man bewitched, and he reaches out a hand to touch the painting and with hesitant fingers he gently touches your cheek. The nude portrait of you, the one Timothée had painted on the day that you left him, posing slung on the very same sofa William’s just slept on.    

And it hits him then, like a collision.  

That this is William. The William. The man who broke your engagement and sailed across the Atlantic with his new bride. A bride he’s apparently already separated from.    

“How, how-” William begins but he seems unable to finish the sentence.  

A sudden feeling of being a side character in somebody else’s story settles inside of Timothée. Words like destiny and star-crossed comes to mind as he observes the other man and his wide, wild eyes, the way he looks at the painting in absolute wonder.  

“Is, is she still here? Is she still in Paris?” and his voice is weak but full of hope. Slowly Timothée shakes his head. “She’s left.” He confirms, and the crushing disappointment is so clear in the other man’s face that it feels cruel to continue, but he does. “She’s married now. To a baron”.  

William’s head snaps away from the painting for the first time since he saw it. “Freddie?” He asks, voice bitter and Timmy nods. “That fucker” he swears “he always was sniffing after her” he adds resentfully. He looks back at the painting and his expression soften, but he looks sadder too.    

“That’s why you came here, isn’t?” Timothée asks hesitantly. “To look for her?”  

William nods, seemingly unable to look away from the picture. He reaches for it and an overwhelming urge to stop him, to remove the painting from his sight washes over Timothée. To hand this portrait of you away to a stranger had seemed like a sad but unavoidable thing to do. But to give it away in due for his debts to your ex fiancé… It felt dirty and cruel.    

But what choice did he have?  

And so, he watches William take the painting and watches him leave with the only thing he has left of you.  

Because Timothée is 26 and he still hasn’t got any money. And he can’t compete with handsome William, or to Freddie the baron. Because Timothée is 26 and all he’s got to show for it is an apartment he can’t afford anymore and a broken heart.    

He runs to the bathroom and hurls in the toilet again, unable to ignore the feeling of nausea and guilt any longer.

*

That night you come to him in his dreams. Like a vision you appear at the end of his bed, drenched in water. White, wet silk clenching to your body, hair slicked to your face and such a haunted look in your eyes that he involuntarily reaches out for you, to hold you, to help you, to save you. He’s not quite sure. But before he can reach you the scenario changes. Because suddenly – as is the way of dreams, you’re the Tate museum watching John Everett Millais Ophelia. Your standing next to him, water dripping from your drenched body down on the floor. He looks at you, but you keep your eyes on the painting.

And when he looks back at it, it’s no longer a portrait of Ophelia lying dead in the water. It’s you.  

He wakes with a jolt, drenched in cold sweat, gasping for air. It feels like he has to force fresh air into his lungs, like he’s been under water for too long. He feels around himself, automatically, to feel for your body, make sure you’re safe.

Bur you are miles away.

*    

February 14th, 1953  

Timothée writes a new letter.    

It’s 5 am and I'm drunk and I am thinking of you and in a few hours it’ll be 12 am and I'll be drunk and I'll be thinking of you. And so the story goes.    

I met your William, charming bloke, shame about his wife. He came here looking for you, you know? Don’t worry, I told him you got married to a baron. Your wedding pictures looked lovely in the Tatler, by the way.  Diamonds suits you.

I haven’t painted much since you left. I have no inspiration. For anything.  

You know, we've made a beating heart out of my pain. It’s a living, breathing creature and it walks with me everywhere, hidden somewhere under my ribcage. Like a second heart. Where I go it follows. What I feel for you, it’s a Frankenstein's monster kind of grief, bits and pieces cut out from us both, turned into a living creature. Can you hear it beating for you? Can you hear it screaming out for you? Saying ‘where did she go? Where did she go? Why can’t I follow?’ Like a child begging for its mother. Come back, come back and collect your second heart, take it out of my body, remove it from me, I cannot stand its begging. I'd kill the monster, but it’s the only thing I have left of you now. Don’t think I could stomach the loss.    

I’m not the same I was before I met you. This love has made a different man out of me. This love has made a bitter man out of me. This love sure feels a lot like drowning. In my dreams you come to me, all Ophelia-esque and suffering, and I want to pull both our bodies out of the water, but you’re determined to sink and I don’t want to let go of your hand and so – we drown.    

I know it’ll pass, this longing I have for you. It must. I cannot keep walking these streets wrecked with grief. One day at a time. That’s what I tell myself each morning as a watch the sun rise over Paris, my head and heart pounding in revolt, one day at a time.      

There’s a Swedish saying that goes ‘a lot of water shall run under a lot of bridges before I forget you’. What it essentially means is that it’ll take a lot for me to forget you, or the way you made me feel.    

But I'm sorry. One mustn’t be morbid. I won’t write you again. I’ve tried to be grateful; I am trying. I hope married life is treating you well. I hope you’ve gotten all you ever wished for. I hope you’re happy. I honestly do. You deserve the best life has to offer. I’m just sad I can’t be the one giving it to you. Being without you is a hard thing to be grateful for.    

One day at a time.    

Yours,      

Timothée      

*    

The next morning, he calls the model agency. Later, just as his headache is subsiding, a blonde model named Lucy knocks on his door. She’s chatty and friendly and moves around too much when he paints her. Her laugh is loud but childlike and she keeps the conversation going. He plays a Benny Goodman record and her hips gently swing along to the rhythm almost involuntarily and she sings along in a sweet voice to ‘The Sunny Side of the Street’.  

Outside the sun is shining and the whole world seems at rest. It’s not the same – God knows it’s not the same – but for the first time in months it all seems, not alright perhaps, but bearable.      

Later that night as he washes himself clean from the yellow paint that’s stained his fingers, he tries to push the feeling of guilt down from where it seems to be stuck in his throat. When that doesn’t work he tries to wash it down with absinth but as he lays down on the livingroom floor, too tired to make it into the bedroom, he watches the golden painting of Lucy gleam even in the dark, he wonders if perhaps absinth is what makes guilt grow.    

*  

1st of Mars, 1953  

Timothée wakes to sunlight streaming in through the large and unwashed windows. For a long while he lays there completely still, sprawled out on the white linen sheets, curly hair draped over the pillow; trying to force his eyes to get used to the light. His head is pounding, and his body aches, but the sensation feels as familiar as the scent of turpentine and oil paint. Slowly he moves his limbs, first wiggling his toes and his hands; as if to count them all, and then, with monumental strength of character, he gets out of bed. Naked as the day he was born he walks over to the window. Far down on the street Paris is already awake, cars and passer-byers chasing down the streets. Some have changed out of their heavy, winter jackets to lighter coats as the bustle off to their individual destination.

It is the first day of spring.  

He turns away from the window, in search for some clothes but stop in his tracks. As if seeing the room with new eyes he takes it in. Around the bed lay bottle after bottle of liquor, the sheets are old and dirty, the room hasn’t been dusted in months, and various pieces of clothing lay scattered everywhere.

He can’t go on like this. It’s time, whether he wants it to be or not. He has to go on.  

He pours down the absinthe, the rum, the whiskey and the brandy down the kitchen sink and watches as it disappears. He cleans and wipes the floor, washes his sheets and clothes and then carefully folds them and puts them away in his closet.  He finishes his painting of Lucy and then starts on another. He calls his delighted art dealer and informs him of the progress, tells him that he’ll have more ones in no time. He then swallows his pride and calls madam Marguerite, asking for the loan she offered. Pride won’t keep him warm if he loses the apartment due to not paying rent. She too sounds delighted and tells him he can pay her back by coming over for dinner. They both need the company.      

And so, he walks to her apartment, a bouquet of daffodils in hand, smelling like clean laundry and with his newly brushed hair it all feel an awful lot like going to church. Upon arriving at Marguerite’s home, a maid opens the door for him and he tries not to smile when she wrinkles her nose and takes his old and patchy coat. The apartment is palace-like in grandeur, white marble everywhere, and decorated with expertise. She leads him into the lounge and announces him.  

“Mr. Chalamet, madam”.  

“Yes, thank you Louise” Marguerite answers and the maid leaves them.  

“A cocktail?” she asks, holding up an empty martini glass. He politely accepts and looks around the room as she prepares it. “Is that a Picasso?” he asks astonished, pointing at a blue portrait of a woman on the wall opposite.  

“Yes” she says and hands him a martini.  

“How- how?”  

She smiles at him indulgently. “I knew him in my youth” she explains and takes a sip from her own drink. He stares at her in amazement. “You know Pablo Picasso?”  

She scoffs. “Oh, don’t be jealous of that, man’s an absolute fool”.

And so, they talk, all through drinks and then dinner.  About art and music. About both of their childhoods, different though they both may have been. She tells him stories from her long and impressive life. About dahling Humphrey. After dinner, which had been a superb affair of duck confit; served on the finest of porcelain and paired with the finest of wines, they’d gone out on the terrace for drinks and smokes. He sticks to his old Lucky Strikes and she to imported Russian cigarettes, (a habit she’d picked up during the war, she’d told him).  

“Darling Humprey would have liked you, he would have rooted for you” she says and leans back in her chair, a Hermès blanket in her lap to keep her warm.  

“Oh really? Was he a good gambler?”

“Oh god no, he was terrible better. And a sore loser.”  she says and smiles in the fond way she does when she thinks of her late husband.  

“How reassuring for me” he says dryly.    

“Dahlinh” she begins in a drawl that would have made Betty Davis proud, “what should be reassuring is that I’m fighting in your corner, and I don’t believe in a losing hand”. Then, changing the subject she says “My niece is quite right you know, your knowledge of classical music is subpar, so I'm educating you. Next week, I'll take you to the opera.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, indeed. Gianni Schicchi. I have a spare ticket so feel free to bring someone along with you”.  

 “Puccini?” he says with a grimace.

“Now boy, I'm fond of you but if you say bad word of Puccini I will throw you of this balcony myself”.

He smiles, but she reminds him so much of her grandniece in this moment and something in his chest is calling out for you

Later that week he calls Lucy and they go out dancing. He doesn’t take her to Pigelle, wants to keep away from its smoke-filled rooms and sticky floors. Escapism isn’t heaven. Not anymore. Instead he takes her to La Noyade, a nice place where nice people go to have fun. And they dance, and she makes him laugh and it’s not world-altering or butterfly-inducing but it’s a good way to pass the time. They mindlessly chat about movies, and music and film stars over glasses of Champagne and they never once wade into personal territories. She wears a nice and tight dress in a sunny color, her golden blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, and as he watches her seductively move her hips to the live band's music, he finds himself thinking ‘why not?’ And when she kisses him with painted-pink lips under a streetlamp he kisses her back. Because why not. And when he takes her to bed that night and fucks her into the mattress, her moans ringing in his ears, and her yellow hair sprawled over his pillows he nearly manages to forget you.  

Nearly.      

He holds her as she falls asleep and he tries to get used to the unfamiliar scent of her hair, the unfamiliarity of her body next to his. One day at a time.

(In his dreams you come to him, through the haze of a misty beach. You take his hand and guide him into a boat. And there you lay, as the boat drifts away and you watch the stars. You hold him close, and breathing feels easier. The rioting creature inside his chest finally at ease.)

*

Walking of the stairs of L'Opéra Garnier one can’t help feel anything but small. The supreme grandeur of the palace is designed to make you feel inferior after all. The high ceiling, gloriously painted by Isidore Pils, is enough to knock the breath out of anyone, and then white marble and gold for as far as the eye can see.  

Timothée is wearing a tuxedo, the cheap rental kind, and the collar hasn’t been starched properly. It itches, and he fights the urge to scratch at his neck, and so he keeps his hand occupied by taking Lucy’s hand in his, and they make their way forward.  

They make their way down the grand foyer. All around them people are dressed up to the nine’s in evening dresses, furs and tuxedos and more diamonds than he’s seen in his entire life, and god, Timothée misses Montmartre. Through the crowd he can see madam Marguerite, fitting her surroundings perfectly.  

“Madam” he greets and kisses her cheek.

“Timothée” she responds, and she sounds fond. However, before he can introduce Lucy to her Marguerite looks over his shoulder and excitingly exclaims “Oh, there you are darling!” Without thinking he turns around to look at whomever Marguerite is greeting.

His body reacts before he does and goes completely still and for a moment he doesn’t understand what’s happening to him.

It’s you.  

With your hair up in an eloquent hairdo, wearing a black velvet gown that he bets costs more than his apartment, and diamonds around your neck, you’re walking towards them. Arm in arm with you walks a man Timothée recognizes from the Tatler, Freddie, with blond hair and upturned nose. He’s certainly not wearing rental wear. “Timothée?” you ask in a weak voice as you reach him. You’re seemingly unable to believe your eyes. “Is it really you?” And with your painted blood-red lips you lean in to kiss his cheek, but they never touch his skin. You pull away and he sees how Freddie’s arm tightens around your waist.

Then you look at Lucy.

“Oh, yes of course, this is Lucy she’s my, uh” he halters.

“Muse” Lucy fills in and Timothée wants to protest, wants to catch the word midair and change it for something else, something less familiar. But he can’t. So, he watches in silence as she stretches out a hand for you to shake, which you elegantly do and even though you’re politely smiling there’s a frozen look on your face that unsettles him. With effortless grace you introduce yourself.  

Then, “and this is my husband, Frederic”. You smile up at him and something inside Timothée chest is wreaking havoc. Freddie looks bored.  

“Should we move along?” Freddie says in a drawling, posh voice that makes Timmy’s skin prickle in displeasure.  

“Of course” Marguerite says, and leads the way, calling out ‘hello’s’ and ‘dahling’s’ to various familiar faces as she goes. Lucy crosses arms with him and they follow the older women's lead, you and your husband at your heel.  

Timothée feels disorientated, head swimming with thoughts. There are too many feelings at once inside of him, too many different emotions fighting for dominance. But somehow, he continues to put one foot in front of the other and before he knows it, they’re in the auditorium. They’re in one of the boxes, and Marguerite places herself front row, next to an elderly gentleman she greets with fond familiarity. In the row behind them Freddie guides his wife and then sits down next to her. He and Lucy take the two seats behind them, Timothée ending up in the seat right behind you. He sees how Freddie leans in to whisper something in your ear, but he can’t hear his words. All he can see is that you stiffen, and slowly shake your head.  

He looks at you, you’re perfect updo, not a hair out of place, the immaculately painted lips, the swan-like neck and perfect stiff posture. Your face still with that unsettling frozen look, as if you’ve retracted somewhere far inside yourself and he remembers how you used to dance in his studio, unguarded and free. Laughing and dancing while he painted you. A sudden urge to take your hand grabs hold of him. To take your hand and lead you away from all of this, away from the man sitting down beside you. To loosen your hair and limbs. To take you home and play Chopin and make you laugh again. Erase that frozen, still look from your face.  

The lighting dims in the auditorium and then the orchestra begin the dramatic first chords of the opera but Timothée finds it hard to concentrate. Lucy has her eyes set on the stage, her hand on his knee. He feels like a trapped animal.  

He thanks his lucky star that it’s at least only a one-act opera he tries to focus on the performances, but his eyes keep moving back to your neck. Your dress is backless and if he reaches out his hand, he could touch your skin. But doesn’t. Knows you wouldn’t want him to.

When O Mio Babbino Caro starts playing he sees how you lean forward, mesmerized by the beautiful voice of the soprano and he smiles, for he remembers you telling him it’s your favorite aria. But he sees how Freddie puts a hand on your arm, making you sit straight again.  

‘Huh’ Timothée thinks and looks at your husband, ‘so this is what pure hatred feels like’. He digs his nails into his hand, leaving little half-moon shaped marks.    

Eventually the wretched thing ends and after having applauded the performers and the orchestra you all rise up to leave. You turn and look at him and he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch your cheek, tell you how beautiful you are, how brave and wise and kind, and how undeserving the man next to you is. But he doesn’t.  

Once outside it’s decided that you and your husband are going back to George V with your aunt for drinks. Politely you invite him and Lucy but he reclines with a bad excuse. He observes you, and even with your perfectly polite manners it’ like you’re walking around half-asleep, still with that frozen look in your face that’s beginning to scare him. And Christ, you’re just so guarded. You bid your goodbyes, and kissing her cheek he thanks Marguerite for the tickets, but when he tries to say goodbye to you, he can see Freddie’s arm tighten around your wait again. So instead of leaning into a kiss on the cheek he politely bows his head and you and in a gentle voice he says “goodbye then, it was nice seeing you again”. You smile back, eyes glossy and for a moment he wonders if you’re about to cry but a moment later you’ve pulled yourself together and politely bids goodbye to Lucy.  And then you’re walking away, Freddie’s arm still around your waist.  

* The next morning he goes to visit madam Marguerite, a book in hand. Louise lets him in, looking down on him as usual. “Would you like me to mend this, monsieur?” she asks, both sarcasm and contempt clear in her voice, as she looks takes his coat, indicating the big tear in one of the sides. “If you wouldn’t mind” he answers cheekily and walks past her.  

Marguerite is sitting on the terrace eating breakfast, Le Monde in front of her. He puts down his copy of Jane Austen’s Emma in front of her.  

“There” he says and sits down in the chair opposite her “your literary soulmate”.

She scoffs “Mr. Knightley really isn’t my type”

He rolls his eyes, but smiles fondly at her “No I shouldn’t think so. And I meant Emma, not Mr. Knightley. You and Emma are the same”.   “Oh what utter nonsense!” She burst out, indignant, “I’ve never meddled a day in my life!”    

Timothée stares at her in disbelief.  

“Honestly!” she defends herself “I didn’t know they were coming to Paris until the day before and then, well, it seemed unnecessary to tell you”.  

“You should have warned me she’d be there” he says sternly. “If nothing else then because then I wouldn’t have invited Lucy”.

She has the decency to look ashamed. “Oh, I dare say I should have warned you. But I was afraid you’d cancel, and I needed you to see it with your own eyes.”

“See what?”

She looks him dead in the eye then, a grave look, “the change in her, of course”.  

He stays silent, doesn’t know what to say, drags his hands through his hair in distress.  

“So” she says after a few moments of silence, “what do you make of Freddie?”

“The words princeling comes to mind”.

She observes him for a second, a sceptic look on her face, “I’m sure that’s not the only word that comes to mind”.  He can’t help but smile at that, because she’s right. “True, but those are not words I'd use in front of a lady. She bursts out in laugher. “Darlinh, I practically invented swearing, no need to hold back in front of me.”

“What do you think of him?" He asks instead.

She huffs. “I prefer Picasso”. *

14th of Mars, 1953

Timothée is painting. Specks of yellow and gold adorn his hands and white shirt. The afternoon sun is lighting up the room and Chopin is playing for the first time in months on the record player. The knock on the door startles him, and since he was in the process of painting the details of Lucy’s eyes a stroke of dark paint ends up on her eyebrow as his hand jerks in surprise at the sudden noise.  

“Fuck” he swears, and with a great deal of annoyance does he go to open the door.

You look surprised as he flings the door open.  

“Sorry” you say, apologetically. “Is this an inconvenient time?”

He doesn’t answer, can’t seem to find his voice, just steps aside, inviting you to come in. You do, and move into the studio. He walks after you, seemingly in a daze.  

“Drink?” he asks eventually, interrupting the pressing silence.

“Yes please” you answer. He looks at you, your hair is elegantly styled and your wearing another expensive looking dress. You’re not looking at him though, but instead at the golden portrait of Lucy he’s in the process of making. You don’t say anything. There’s still that still look on your face and it unsettles him.  

He hands her a glass of gin. “Where’s dear Freddie then?” he asks, in a feigned nonchalant manner as he offers you a cigarette. You step closer to him so that he can light it. You’re so close he can smell your familiar perfume, and feel the heat from your skin. He looks down on you as you try to get the end to gleam. He can count your eyelashes from this distance, see every single feature in your face, every crook and corner. In the beginning, when you had first come to this studio, he had felt obsessed by the idea of painting your perfect likeness.  But the closer he looked at you, the more impossible it felt.       “Freddie is at a business function. I was not required” you answer and steps away from him, blowing out smoke into the room.   “And where’s your muse?” you ask, and there’s a certain amount of resentment in your voice that you can’t seem to keep at bay.

“Right here” he answers simply, looking at you.

“And Lucy?”

“I don’t know” he responds truthfully.  “I got your letter” you say, calmly.

Ah,

“Sorry” he says. “Shouldn’t have sent that. I was drunk”.

You keep looking at him, seemingly deep in thought.   And before he loses all courage he asks, “may I paint you again? One last time?”       “In what colour?”       “In all your colours, just as you are” he answers, and then “I don’t have rose-colored glasses when I look at you anymore”.     The room goes very still for a moment.   “Do you still want me?” you ask, voice small.     And with sincerity clear in his voice he answers. “More than ever”.

“No” you say and put down your drink, stubbing out your cigarette in the ashtray. “No, I don’t want you to paint me”.

Something twists painfully in his chest.  

“That’s not what I want you to do to me” you continue and step closer.

And then you kiss him.  

He grabs hold of you and kisses you back, trying to express every ounce of longing he’s felt since you left into the kiss. But he can tell part of you is holding back.   “Don’t do that” he says in a low voice, pulling away from you. His eyes are bright and shining. “If you’re with me, you’re with me. Don’t keep foot out the door. If you’re with me; be with me. If you don’t want to be, then you have to leave. I don’t want you half-heartedly. I understand you can’t stay with me longer than today but if you’re with me then don’t keep your mind on him.”       You stare at him, taken aback.       “Well?” he asks “is this what you want?”       Your answer is a red-hot kiss. Your answer is your hands, trying to tear his shirt off of him. Trying desperately to get your hands on his skin and he wants to cry from the sheer relief of feeling you touch him again. Frantically you’re tearing at his clothes. He grips your hands to stop you.       “Slowly” he whispers in your ear. He can tell that you’re worked up from your labored breathing, chest rising and falling quickly, your eyes gleaming as you look up at him. The frozen look finally gone. You look alive again. He can tell that all you want right now is for him to lay you down and fuck you as hard and fast as he can. But he doesn’t want to rush this, knows this is all the time he’s going to get. And he feels like a man living on borrowed time.     He kisses you, languidly, and your lips taste like gin. He leads you down, so you’re lying on the soft carpet, hovering above you. For ages all you do is kiss, your hands roaming his body, like you can’t stop touching him. Eventually he starts to remove your clothes, the silky material of your dress soft like water in his hands as he takes it off you, sneaking in kisses all over your body as he does so. You in turn help remove his dress shirt and trousers. Until eventually there’s nothing but air separating you.       He looks you directly, deep into your eyes “Sure?” he asks, because he must hear it. Couldn’t live with himself if you ended up regretting this.       “Yes” you say, voice barely louder than a whisper, but it doesn’t waver.       The last rays of golden sunshine lights up the room and maybe it’s his overactive imagination, but he swears the light forms a halo around your head. He’s prowling over you, settled in-between your legs.  He thinks you must see, surely you must see, all the wonder in his eyes that he feels when he looks at you.       He kisses your sensitive nipples and you shiver in delight. Your hands in his hair and you move up against him, desperate for him to touch more of you. He bites, nips, licks and sucks your breasts, leaving wet traces as he goes and god, he’s missed this; missed you. The taste and feel of your soft skin, your gasps and moans, your hands tugging at his hair. Some part of him, a particularly cynical part of him, thought he’d must have made it up, that in the aftermath of you leaving his brain had beautified the memories of you until you’d reach almost divine proportions. But it was all real.

He grinds his body against yours, fill his hands with your breast, kisses you everywhere he can. He reaches down a hand to the wetness between your legs.     “So wet” he murmurs against your skin “have you been thinking about this all day?” He pushes a finger inside you and you buckle up against him in response. “Mon cœur” he continues as he presses wet kisses against your throat, and adds another finger inside you, touching you with expertise in just the way he knows will send sparks of pleasure all down your spine. He remembers exactly how you like to be touched. “I asked you a question”.       “Yes” you moan.       He looks down on his fingers, moving in and out of you, glistening with your wetness. “Have you missed it?” he asks, voice low, and he speeds up the pace, his thumb moving over your clit. Your head thrown back you let out a deep moan and in a breathless voice you answer “yes, yes, missed it so much”.

Your hair has fallen out of its elegant hairdo, your cheeks flushed and wet and lips swollen from kisses. You look wild and free.

“I’ve been thinking about this, touching you; fucking you, ever since the opera” he leans down and kisses your clit, fingers still moving inside of you. And then he sucks on it and you explode around his fingers, cramping down around them, hips bucking and moans falling freely from your lips.

He strokes your cheek and kisses your face as he lets you catch your breath. Eventually you start kissing him back, softly at first, then ardently. He so hard he feels he could self-combust but as he lines up at your entrance, he looks you in the eye and asks “sure?”  

“Never been more certain” you reply, voice like honey, and you wrap your leg around his waist, trying to guide him inside you.    

He lets you get used to him, adjust to his size, before he starts moving. Your hands are in his and he can feel your wedding ring against his skin.

You try to incite him to move faster, bucking your hips against him, but he doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t want to go too hard on you.

“I’m not made of porcelain” you hiss, frustrated “you’re not going to hurt me. Fuck me like I'm yours”.

He’s starts fucking you with more force then, grinding where he knows you like it. Your nails are scratching his back, pulling at his hair. Sounds – moans, whimpers and begging's of more – escaping your mouth uninterruptedly. You can’t seem to stop them. He looks down on you and he swears out loud. The good damn sight of you like this, he knows he’ll never get the image out of his head. Knows that in months from now – when you’re back in good old England with your husband and he’s all alone here in this apartment – that he could paint this moment with picture-like perfection. Your glossy eyes filled with bliss, wild hair and flushed skin, lips still painted red and formed in a moan. But he won’t. He’ll let it be a memory, the thought of anyone else seeing that painting too unsettling for words.         You come again then, eyes tight shut and head thrown back, mouth wide open in a silent scream. He feels your orgasm, can feel you spasm around him and he swears he’s gone to heaven.   And as the final rays of sunlight disappears outside, he calls your name – half prayer half cry– and releases inside you, white hot pleasure racing down his spine, and then the whole room goes dark. The only reasons he knows the world hasn’t ended are your warm and sweaty body beneath him. The only sounds in the whole, wide world are both of your breathless gasps.   *    After, you put on your clothes in silence, avoiding the others eyes. He feels almost shy. The thing inside his chest is crying, knowing that you’re minutes away from leaving again, that this time it’s forever.   How do you do something even though it kills you?       “I’m sorry, for everything” you say and it startles him.     “For everything?”       “Yes. I’m sorry I came back” you avoid his eyes as you speak “well, I’m sorry but I don’t regret that part. And I’m sorry I can’t stay. I’ve never meant to hurt you.”       Because it’s the right thing to do.  

You are staying with your husband. This is your decision. He can’t force you to leave, or stay. He can’t save you, no matter what Marguerite says. Not when you’re determined to drown.   “I’ve loved you wholeheartedly and I have no regrets. I’ve loved you of my own free will. You don’t owe me anything.”    

The frozen look is back on your face and your spine straight again, hair fixed in place. You’ve put your armor back on.  And like this, you leave.

* 18th of April, 1953

It’s a fine morning in April and Timothée is headed over to madam Marguerite’s apartment, a box of treats from her favourite patisserie in one hand and bouquet of magnolias in the other. Later this week she’s taking him to the opera again, Rossini this time, and he wants to give her something as a thank you.

Outside on the street an ambulance is parked. He walks past it and starts climbing the many stairs to her apartment. When he gets to Marguerite’s floor he’s taken by surprise. The apartment door is wide open and in the doorway stand a sobbing Louise, being comforted by a medic. Dread settles in his stomach.

“What’s going on?” he asks, and he can hear the panic in his own voice. “Where’s madam Marguerite?”

Louise starts sobbing even louder and the kind-looking medic pats her sympathetically on the shoulder.

“She passed away in her sleep last night. This woman here found her this morning”.

Something falls inside Timothée and is lost forever. The ground feels unsteady under his feet and for a second, he waivers. “Have you notified her family?” He asks.

The man shakes his head, “no, not yet”.

“I’ll do it” Timothée says firmly, letting it be known that this isn’t up for discussion. 

*  “Frederic Fairfax speaking” Freddie’s drawly voice answers when Timothée calls your London address.  

“Hello, it’s Timothée Chalamet, could I speak to your wife, it’s urgent”  

Silence for ten long seconds.

“No, anything you want to tell her you can tell me” Freddie eventually answers and there’s tension in his voice.

“Is she not in?”

“Yes, she is, but I'd rather you take this with me, Mr. Chalamet”.

“I see” Timmy answers, and he somehow manages to keep the rage he feels out of his voice. “But I have some very distressing and urgent news I have to pass on”.

“Then I suggest you share them with me”

Timothée wants to bang his head against the wall. But he keeps his voice calm. “You see, her greataunt Marguerite has passed away.”

“I see” the other man answers in a cold, unfeeling voice. “Well, if that was all, Mr. Chalamet, good bye.”

And he hangs up.

* May 1st, 1953.  

In a red brick building on Chancery Lane, London, Timothée is sitting smoking in an armchair. The solicitor’s office looks like you would imagine a solicitor's office to look like, with oak furniture and cabinets full of files with important documents, outside busy men in suits hustling by and secretaries in pen skirts tapping on their typewriters’.  

Madam Marguerite’s solicitor Mr. Lancaster looks on the crowd gathered for the reading of the will.

There’s Timothée, lounging in his chair, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else and avoiding looking at you. There’s you, perfectly poised and wearing black, hands clapped in your lap to stop them from shaking. Then there’s your parents, your black-clad mother sniffling into a tissue and your father, with a grave look on his face.

Freddie is nowhere to be seen, and this surprises Timothée.  

“Shall we begin?” the solicitor starts, organizing the papers in front of him. There’s a general hum of agreeing from the crown and Mr. Lancaster clears his throat. “Very well then. I had the great fortune of knowing Mrs. Beauchêne-Wright and I considered her a personal friend. She was a remarkable woman” he clears his throat again and Timothée shuffles with his feet, still not understanding why he’s been called to be present at this occasion. “An extraordinary woman” he repeats and look down at the papers in front of him. “Very well then” he says, before beginning to read from the will. “This is the last will of me Marguerite Beauchêne-Wright of 55 Rue de Châteaudun 75009 Paris -”

*   It’s raining outside, a gentle but persistent drizzle. TImothée  stands under his umbrella and observes as your mother storms off, her husband at her heel, into a taxi. She slams the door and they drive off, water splashing up on the sidewalk. His head feels foggy. The whole situation feels unreal. He’s standing outside the red brick building smoking, trying to get a grip on the situation. In a few hours he has to get back to Victoria station to take the night train back to Paris.  

You walk out of the solicitor's office, a dazed look on your face, seemingly not even noticing the rain falling down. You seem him and walk up to him and he lifts his umbrella so you’re under it too.

“Gotta admit, didn’t see that one coming” he states and hands you his cigarette. You take it gratefully and inhale deeply.  

“No” you say, some seconds later, “no I didn’t quite see that coming either”. A homourless laugh escapes you. “They’re furious about it” referring to your parents. “Asked if they could contest the will. Mr. Lancaster told them they didn’t have a leg to stand on”.   “So” you say and look up at him. “What are you going to do with the money?”

The money. Marguerite’s entire estate divided between him and the woman in front of him. There had been a few smaller bequests to various people and charities, but the absolute majority of the fortune where to be split between you. Even after all the death duties it was by all consideration a fortune.  

“Dunno” he answers. ”Haven’t really thought ahead that far”.  And then, because he can’t contain his curiosity anymore. “Where’s dear Freddie then?”       You’re silent for a moment, avoiding his eyes as you watch the rain create patterns in the puddles. “Freddie’s left.” you say eventually. “He’s seeking for a divorce. God knows he’s got grounds for it.”  the cigarette shakes in your trembling hand. “I’ve been a terrible wife all things considered.”    

He’s stunned into silence, too much life-altering information having been dropped on him already today. Eventually he gets a hold of himself and states, because he already knows it to be true, “he knows about us, doesn’t he? About what happened in Paris.”    

You nod, and two tears fall down your cheeks. “They’re furious with me.”

“Who are?” he asks, confused.  

“My family”  “Why?”

A grimace, then “doesn’t matter”. Drop the cigarette on the ground and stomp it out. “Mr. Lancaster says we have to go to Nice. Apparently, most of her possessions are there and we need to go through them. He says that since we own the house now, we can live in it while we do so”.

He observes her for a moment. “I have an exhibition in Paris this month, I can’t leave before that’s done.”

You smile, but it’s still devoid of humour. “And I have a divorce to settle.”

The rain keeps falling around them.  

“How about this” you say “we’ll go there in July, a summer on the riviera doesn’t sound too bad, and we’ll...” you trail of for a second “and we’ll settle everything then”.  

Gently he puts his fingers under your chin and tilts your head up so that you look at him. You look as if you’re bursting at the seams, like you’re at your last straw. “Alright” he says and leans in to gently press a kiss on your forehead. “Alright, sounds like a plan”. And then he looks you in the eyes again “Everything will be alright, you know. Everything will be fine”.

You smile again, and this time it’s more genuine. Then you lean in, and place the softest of kisses on his mouth.  

Then you leave.   A/N: jesus christ, I spent a good 25 minutes of my life googling the rules of aristocratic titles in England.  Freddie’s father is an earl, that makes freddie as the oldest son a baron and his wife a baronet? Right? If that’s not correct then, well, sorry, but those rules are mind boggling. 

Other things I've googled a lot is the language of flowers and what different flowers symbolizes.  

That ‘Swedish saying’ timmy refers to in his letter is not a saying but in fact from a song by Veronica Maggio called Stopp and very badly translated by me.    

Also. I know that timothée’s letter is a bit... disturbing, but the thought of it wouldn't leave my mind so I had to write it.

I am planning on writing the last part, but this story always takes a lot of effort to write so it’ll be a while.   

[fromashescomephoenixes]

Heya! It’s me again lol! May I request a Sirius x Reader hilariously crashing the Dursleys wedding? Also James and Lily (who were invited to the wedding) didn’t know they were gonna show up which makes it more funny 🤣🤣

Wedding Splashers

warnings: this was written late at night without proofreading! sorry XD

word count: 1.6k

summary: Sirius x y/n crash the Dursley’s wedding, much to the amusement of James and Lily.

a/n: thank you so much for the great request! I hope this is somewhat like what you had in mind :)

••••

“C’mon y/n!” Sirius poked at me. “It will be so much fun!” I sighed and rolled over, so that I was no longer facing him.

“Shush Sirius I’m going to sleep,” I groaned.

“You know it will make Lily so happy,” he continued. That statement did capture my attention a little bit.

“I don’t know Siri,” I closed my eyes as I spoke, but now all I could see was Lily’s overjoyed face. Her green eyes glittering with laughter. “I suppose,” I finally replied mischievously.

“That’s my girlfriend!” With that I rolled back over and propped my pillow up so I could see him in the dim starlight. We began to make our plans, and I charmed one of my least favourite dresses to be even uglier.

••••

We had woken up early this morning, and I had put on my ghastly ruffled dress that looked like it had been shredded by some fearsome creature. I had transfigured it to be a bright, loud neon green. Of course, there were also brown polka dots all over it.

“My angel, you look hideous!” Sirius grinned with delight. We had planned this very carefully. He was looking very, erm, dapper, in a pale puke green suit, which also had brown spots to compliment my dress. Of course, his outfit wouldn’t matter quite so much...

I sat quite at breakfast for a moment. My vision of Lily’s laughing eyes had suddenly been shadowed by her disappointment.

“Siri, what if Lily gets mad at us for making her sister upset?”

“After what happened at their Wedding?” Sirius began to guffaw loudly. That’s when I remembered the screeching match that had happened during the ceremony. I never thought anyone would actually have the audacity to object to a marriage at someone’s wedding. Apparently Petunia was the only one with that amount of selfishness. How could I forget that she also managed to insult every single wizard in the room, especially James and Sirius?

“You’re right. Plus this has no bad spirit behind it. We simply want to lighten the awful mood,” I smiled a little.

“That’s the spirit!” Sirius exclaimed. “Now my glorious goddess, we are off to complete what many only dream of.” He paused for dramatic effect.

“We’re going to crash a wedding!”

••••

James and Lily had had a rather hectic morning. First, Lily’s dress hadn’t quite fit due to the newly acquired baby bump. So of course she had to alter it rather speedily.

Then, Bathilda Bagshot has called getting their breakfast date confused by two weeks. This had led to a rather flustered James having to patiently explain that they were running late to a wedding.

Of course, that was when the toaster had decided fizzle out and start smoking rather alarmingly.

“It’s practically Petunia trying to make sure I don’t actually show up!” Lily exclaimed in an exasperated tone. She looked rather lovely in a soft green dress which flowed out nicely. Before they hurried out the door she was choosing whether to wear her pearl earrings or her gold earrings.

“It’s going to be okay dear,” James comforted her as he fiddled with the smoking toaster. “The knight bus will be very fast, and I’m sure she does want you there,”

“My mom does at least,” Lily sighed looking at the invitation with her mom’s handwriting signing it.

“It will be very nice to support her. You’re being the bigger person my darling,” James rubbed her shoulders.

“Thank you dear,” Lily rested her head onto his shoulder.

“Alright, we ought to go!” They locked their cottage door and summoned the Knight Bus.

••••

The Knight Bus was quite busy that particular morning. Perhaps due to the Holyhead Harpies game taking place that afternoon.

As it would happen, Sirius and y/n were actually on the same bus as James and Lily, however since they were wearing particularly ‘unique’ outfits, they slipped by unnoticed.

“Is that-“ Lily began as you hustled on to the bus a couple of stops later. “No, it couldn’t be,” she giggled nervously.

“Hmm?” James responded, taking Lily’s hand.

“Are you stressed?” Lily asked James.

“A little,” James admitted. “But I don’t mind braving this for you,” He smiles sweetly. Sirius mimed throwing up as you both watched them from the level above. You gave a small laugh and simply took his hand.

••••

The wedding was quite busy. It definitely was not a low profile event. Privately I thought that the decoration was a little over the top. It appeared that they had modelled their wedding after the recent royal wedding. They had just had a slightly bigger budget and guest list...

Dozens of orangey roses stood in opulent gold vases, which were at the end of every row of chairs. The chairs themselves all had orange and gold coverings, and there must have been three hundred seats. How anyone could remember , much less know that many people was beyond me.

“Oh my,” I exclaimed in horror, momentarily forgetting my ugly dress.

“Looks like we dressed appropriately y/n,” Sirius said with a twinkle in his eye. I simply nodded, to overwhelmed by everything to respond.

As planned, we took as seat as close to the front as we could. Plus we were next to the aisle. Everything was going perfectly according to plan. Sirius silently transformed into his animagus form, and I uncovered the dish of mud we had brought with us. Someone came by and asked to check our invitation. A simple confundus charm put an end to that, however I couldn’t help but giggle to think that they were so worried about someone uninvited joining their 300+ wedding group that they had some poor old man walking around checking tickets.

Soon the ceremony began, and Petunia began stomping (I would say gliding, but... oh dear there’s truly no other way to describe it. Her gown was certainly very impressive. It was at least as wide as a car, or so it appeared, and reminded me of a birds nest in a strange way. The train was at least ten feet long, and seven bridesmaids followed behind.

That’s when it began.

Vernon began to cry. He started spluttering ‘Pe-Petunia’ he ended with a soft wail. It would be romantic, however all it reminded me of was when he had spluttered at James in anger last we saw them. His wails echoed off of the cathedral hall, and drowned out the wedding march playing on the organ.

Snuffles and I sat quietly through the ceremony. I must admit that it wasn’t the worst wedding I could imagine... They seemed to love each other very much. But our plan was too close now.

“Speak now, or forever hold your peace!” The Minister boomed. He glanced around a little apprehensively. That was my cue. I stood up and began my little speech, of course I recited in my very bad American accent, just to throw everyone off of the sent.

“Well now y’all!” I announced. “Don’t y’all sugarplums get me wrong, I ain’t objecting. I just love you two too much for words I-“ Sirius began his muddy journey up the aisle.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see momentary looks of horror pass James and Lily’s faces. To my relief I saw it was quickly replaced with a subtlety amused smile.

“Oh my dear precious poochie!” I shrieked in a very prim English accent. “Oh my word, no not the dress snuffles!” Sirius walked all over the train before pawing at the front of Petunia’s dress. I began to jog wobbly up the aisle. At these actions I heard a slight laugh quickly disguised as a cough come from the general direction of James and Lily. With a grin I began to further dramatise my clumsy journey to the alter.

“Oh goodness, don’t worry every body. My darling Snuffles simply wants to be part of the fun!” I arrived at the front. With a quick pinch to Petunia’s heavily rouged cheek I scooped Snuffles up off of the ground. “Oh who is my precious honey bunny pooh bear?!” I continued in a shrieking tone.

“GET OUT!” Vernon finally regained his senses to a degree. Eager to escape the anger of the groom and bride I hustled down the aisle. Lily and James were freely laughing at this point, as were quite a few other guests.

••••

Sirius transformed back as soon as he could safely and we dissolved into helpless laughter.

“Oh the looks on their faces!”

“We pulled that off magnificently y/n!” Sirius cheered.

“Let’s just hope they don’t try and sabotage our wedding!” I exclaimed without even thinking.

“You want to get married?!” Sirius stood up a little straighter. I blushed realising exactly what I had said. I nodded eagerly, but couldn’t speak out of embarrassment.

Sirius let out a cry of joy before scooping me into his arms and pressing a kiss on to my lips.

“I promise to love you, even if we have a mangy dog attack us during our wedding,” I grinned, teasing him.

“Mangy dog?” Sirius shouted. He scooped me up again, but this time with a much more malicious intent as he jogged towards the lake. I quickly transfigured my dress into some bearable bathers. With a splash I was launched into the lake.

“Hey!” I sent a wave of water towards Sirius.

“You don’t want me to smell like wet dog in bed tonight!” Sirius teased, wiggling his eyebrows. I simply grinned and splashed him again.

[thicccqueyoongimin]

marry you| jhs

pairing: jung hoseok x female!reader

warnings: alcohol, thats kinda it

word count: 700

rating: pg

genre: fluff!!

‘just one more drink, y/n’ the dark haired boy slurred out lazily as he leans against the bar.

the night was young. the sun had set only a few hours ago and here you were. absolutely wasted at your local bar with the man you called your boyfriend.

‘fineeee but after that, we go home’ you giggle. you were sure that tomorrow you'd be paying for your impulsiveness with a hangover, but it was friday. fridays were for rash decisions. those rash decisions often led to great memories.

hoseok wrapped his slender arms around your waist as you finished the last drink of the night. your head was spinning. you were thankful hoseok was less of a lightweight than you were, you could barely hold yourself up. all you could do was laugh as the two of you pranced (or stumbled) out of the bar.

the sky was clear, the city buzzed with life and you sighed as the cool night air hit your warm face.

‘do we have to go home just yet y/n? its so earlyyyy’ hoseok pouts.

‘hobi, its 10pm!’

you turn to your boyfriend. he’s doing that puppy dog look with his eyes again. ugh. it gets you every time.

‘fine, what should we do?’

hoseok looks into your eyes and for a moment and for a split second he looks completely sober as he says, ‘let’s get married’

you stand there, glued to the floor.

you two had briefly spoken about marriage a few times but it never turned into anything serious. it seemed a bit ridiculous that he would bring it up on a random friday night when you were both drunk.

maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the look in hoseok’s brown eyes but without a second thought, you found your voice speaking for you, ‘yes.’

Hoseok’s grip around your hand tightened and he smiled, eyes turning into small crescents. ‘i know the perfect little chapel on the boulevard, let’s go’

it was a good thing you both lived in las vegas, because of course, like everything else in the city, the chapel was open 24 hours.

the staff did not seem particularly surprised when you and hoseok clambered in, both obviously plastered.

a few signed papers and agreements later, you stood at the altar. hoseok was standing across from you, looking into your eyes. the room was completely empty save hoseok, you, the priest, and a few employees. the stained glass windows illuminated the room in beautiful colors and the lights were dimmed. you had no wedding dress, no bridesmaids, no reception with the tiny sandwiches and cookies…. nothing.

this was definitely not how you imagined your wedding to be. and yet, it was perfect. you had nothing that would make a traditional wedding perfect, but you had hoseok. you took his hands into your own as the priest started to speak to an empty room.

as soon as it began, it was over. you and hoseok shared a kiss to seal the deal. it all felt complete. the small audience of staff applauded you, complimentary glasses of champagne were shared and you bid goodbye to everyone. both you and hoseok stepped out of the building a newly married couple.

he looked down at you and smiled. ‘i feel good. how do you feel mrs. jung hoseok?’

‘never felt better’ you reply.

there would be a tOn of explaining to do in the coming weeks. living arrangements would have to be figured out too. for now, you both agreed to stay at hoseok’s apartment until you found somewhere you both liked. you had a great feeling that everything would work out just fine though.

in the end, it really is going to be just you and hoseok against the world. no matter what, you knew that you would do whatever it took to make things work with him.

[fabulouspotatosister]

Reset - Part One: Darling

a/n: Whoa, Eleven x Reader fanfiction in the year of our Lord 2020? More likely than you think.

I meant to finish the original version of this fic years ago, and then the Thirteenth Doctor came along and... well, we all know what happened. I was also just going to update the fic with a whole new chapter, but I decided to rewrite the whole thing since I wrote the first draft in 2015. Then I posted it in 2018 on AO3 to see if anyone would read it, and then proceeded to abandon it for two years. 

This fic is inspired by the episode "Amy's Choice", and, of course, "What's In a Dream?" by midnighteclipses. It's still one of my favorite DW reader-insert fics out there, and the first one I read a long long time ago. I hope you enjoy this!

Also if this read-more doesn’t work, I’m going to cry.

Word count: 3529

[Part One: You are here!] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five]

“Darling, wake up.”

 You groan and squeeze your eyes shut, clumsy fingers grabbing at your blanket to pull the fuzzy thing over your eyes. The blankets smell good today. You’ve always used the same detergent, and it’s never failed you. Your brain is protesting, but your mouth hasn’t quite caught up yet, so all you do is mumble into your blanket, your mumbling roughly translating to “Five more minutes, please?”

 “Love. Sweetie. Dear. Don’t make me pull out ‘sweetheart’, I know how much you hate it.” You hear a long, dramatic sigh, and you feel a weight sink into the mattress. The weight shifts, and you feel hands splayed out on top of the blanket, threatening to pull it away and rob you of some good, extra sleep. “Please wake up.”

 “No,” you whine, vainly hoping that you’ll sink into the blankets and fall asleep before the idea of waking up becomes too tempting. It is getting a little hot... “Leave me alone.”

 Another sigh. “You asked for it.”

 “No, no -!”

 Suddenly, the blanket’s yanked away - you wince at the bright light that filters through the room, and when your vision clears, you see your husband, John.

 He smiles at you, and it’s brilliant. His hair is sticking out at ridiculous angles and yet he is still stunning, big beautiful green eyes shining in the light of the rising sun. “Hi,” he breathes out, and all you can think is that you have never felt so lucky in your entire life.

 “Hi.” You smile back, and his smile grows wider. “Good morning.”

 “Good morning to you too,” he says softly, reaching out to brush your hair from your forehead. “I was starting to wonder if you would ever wake up.”

 “Sleep is good.” You raise your eyebrows and push yourself up into a sitting position - John moves to sit closer to you, his hand falling from your temple and into your lap. He wraps his hand around yours. “It’s an escape.”

 “What, an escape from me? Am I that insufferable?” John lifts your hand to his mouth, laughing slightly. He presses his lips lightly to the inside of your palm, and butterflies erupt in your stomach. He slowly lifts his eyes to meet yours, mischief behind them, and suddenly you’re a schoolgirl with a crush, your heart racing at a simple kiss. “Well?”

 Well, that wasn’t fair. “Are you trying something?”

 John doesn’t move, but you know he’s hidden his smirk behind your hand - “Is it working?”

 “Do you want me to tell you the truth?”

 Oh, he’s definitely smirking now. “Of course.”

 “You are a big flirt.” You pull your hand away with a laugh. John had always been mischievous, his affection expressed in teasing touches and words. “Is something up? What’s the occasion?”

 “The occasion? There’s no occasion,” John says, and then his smile falls. You can see the gears in his head turning as he lifts his gaze to the sky, his lips open slightly in thought - and then, like nothing, he smiles again. “Although something is up. Close your eyes.”

 “What, now?” You giggle, doing as you’re told.

 “Yes, now,” John says. You feel him cup your face in his hands, and feel his lips on your forehead, and you catch the faint smell of pancake mix and blueberries amongst his distinctive smell. “I had to hurry before you got grumpy, and so there’s a bit of a mess in the kitchen, I’m really sorry -”

 "I don't get grumpy!"

 "Right, right…"

 You feel him get off the bed and leave the room, his footsteps growing softer as he walks away. Distantly, there’s the clinking of plates and utensils, something being poured into a glass, and something muttered that you’re sure is a swear -

 “Okay, you can open your eyes now.”

 You do, and you can barely keep your jaw from falling open - laid out in front of you is a breakfast feast. Pancakes, perfectly stacked pancakes drizzled with just the right amount of syrup, dotted with the color of blueberries, and a steaming cup of coffee right beside it. The room smells amazing now, and you feel amazing. All you can do is stare incredulously at the meal laid out in front of you.

 “Surprise!”

 You look up at John, your mouth still wide open - he hands you a fork and smiles sheepishly, placing his hands behind his back. Standing in front of you, you finally notice the flour stains on his arms, and the bits of batter on his shirt. Shaking your head, you blink away tears.

 “Oh no, don’t cry,” John says, quickly reaching forward to take your face in his hands again. He strokes your cheek with his thumb and you bask in the warmth of his touch - you are so lucky to have someone like him in your life. Forever. “I just wanted to make you breakfast.”

 “Yeah, but - this is so nice, I can’t -” You reach up and hold his wrists. “Why?”

 “Well, you deserve to have nice things.” John exhales, looking up at the ceiling before pressing his forehead to yours. “Someone as beautiful as you deserves to have nice things.”

 “Oh, don’t start,” you complain, but John just laughs and presses a chaste kiss to your lips. You, with your bedhead and your chapped lips and your sleepy face, beautiful. You weren’t really complaining at all. There’s a buzzing noise from the nightstand on the other side of the bed - “Hey, I think that’s your phone.”

 “I don’t have a phone,” John says innocently.

 “You have a phone, and you have work,” you counter. You realize you’re winning when he lets go of your face and rolls onto the other side of the bed to check his phone.

 “I’m going to be late!” you hear him gasp, and you bark out a laugh - John turns to face you, scandalized, his face pale. “This is no time to be laughing at my misery!”

 “It’s the perfect time to be laughing at your misery.”

 “I’m sorry, I got carried away making breakfast -” John scrambles off the bed, rushing to the closet and pulling out a coat. He switches between the closet and the full-length mirror propped up beside it, running his hands through his hair and adjusting his coat. “Bon appetit! Enjoy your pancakes, sweetheart, I’ve got to -”

 “Wait!” you cry out, stopping him in his tracks. “Wait. C’mere, I’m not letting you leave without a hug from me.”

 “But of course,” he says, quickly walking to you and leaning down so he can wrap your arms around you. You press kisses to his neck, his jaw, and finally his lips, attacking him with affection as a small “thank you” for the breakfast. It’s the least you can do for your lovely husband, the perfect man that you’ve somehow managed to snag from everyone else. How did you even manage that?

 “I won’t keep you,” you whisper, and he pulls away. “Go, you clever boy!”

 John beams at you and rushes out of the room - you hear the front door slam not long after. You settle into your pillows and pick at your pancakes; they taste divine, of course, and you sit on your bed silently eating your pancakes while enjoying the sound of distant birdsong. Chewing on a particularly syrupy piece of fluffy pancake you remember that you’ll have to clean up the “mess” John mentioned earlier, and you smile, having a plan already set for the day.

 You spring to your feet with a renewed sense of vigor, gathering up your empty plate and mug, and carrying them into the kitchen. You smooth your gloved hands over your apron and get to work washing all the plates left in the sink - and then you frown. You don’t remember when you got dressed, or when you put those gloves on, and what you ate last night. The thought passes quickly before you shake your head and continue scrubbing at an already spotless plate.

 You dry off the last of the plates, placing it neatly onto a metal rack before grabbing a broom and sweeping the floor - you’d narrowly avoided choosing carpet as your flooring when you were renovating, before John had swooped in and saved the day by picking out some classic floorboards.

 The dust and lint gathers into a pile in the corner, and you lean on your broom, admiring your home.

 You were lucky to have bought such a nice house. It wasn’t too big, but had enough space for you to be able to decorate and plan for the future. Very lucky indeed...

 There’s a “photo wall” near the kitchen that you like to look at. It’s sparse, but there are a lot of mementos there to remind you of the important things. Among the usual decorative pictures of forests and gardens there are pictures of you and John - pictures of the two of you at your wedding, posing and laughing and drinking with friends. Wasn’t your dress frilly that day? Or was it loose? Wasn’t your hair in a bun? John didn’t wear a bowtie, you think...

 You squint at the photos. Your gaze is drawn to one of the wedding pictures, one from the reception where you’re standing with all your bridesmaids. You’re drinking and laughing, holding a champagne flute in your hand, but you can’t make out the bridesmaids faces. They’re fuzzy, and where are their mouths? Their eyes? The photo blurs like the photographer taking it had moved his hand while trying to take the shot.

 Your grip on your broom tightens. It feels like years and years ago, and the details escape you now.

 You shouldn’t focus on those things. You’re happy here, with John - but maybe you should go find your bridesmaids, it’s been so long since you’ve last seen them. What were their names again? You’re sure Jenny was one... but you don’t know a “Jenny”.

 You can feel your nails digging into the broom’s wooden handle now, threatening to leave crescent-shaped marks into its surface. The details escape you, now.

 And the details don’t matter.

 You sweep quickly, the pile of lint and dust and pieces of wood growing steadily bigger. Soon enough the house will be spotless again, and John will come back from work and you’ll kiss him until you have to clean the house again.

 That’s my life, whispers the voice in the back of your head, and you believe it. I am happy. I am content.

 “I am happy,” you mutter as you place the broom down, letting in lean against the side of one of the kitchen counters. The pile of dust is gone, you swept it out of the door. You walk towards the living room, the soft surface of the sofa beckoning you to lay on it and just take a nap. Forget about all the racing thoughts in your mind. You said sleep was an escape, and you have to escape now. "I am content."

 But your feet take you somewhere else. You lead yourself down the hallways, away from the living room, and now you’re standing in front of a beautifully painted blue door.

 You don’t recognize the door, but it’s familiar. Your brain helpfully supplies it as the laundry room, which is always clean and doesn’t need cleaning ever, but you’re drawn to how faded it is. You lift your hand and drag your fingers across its surfaces. You feel old paint and memories behind this door, and you don’t have to open it.

 Your fingers inch closer and closer to the doorknob and you don’t need to open it -

 The door swings open slowly with a soft creak. It’s pitch-black in there. You feel a soft breeze against your face - you take a small step inside, clinging to the doorway, squinting through the darkness. The darkness almost feels solid, like a barrier, keeping you out.

 Or, you think as you spot a flickering flashlight on the floor, it’s keeping something in.

 You pick up the flashlight, tapping it a few times until its flickering stops. Your fingers curl around its sleek metal handle. You wave it around, watching it cut through the darkness to reveal -

 The flashlight clatters to the ground. Writing. Words, scrawled all over the walls in your handwriting, frenzied rambling trailing from the walls to the ceiling. Don’t forget, try not to forget. Among the crazed writing are drawings, messy sketches of you and John together in places you don’t recognize. Arrows pointing to John labeled “Doctor, Doctor”.

 “No, no, no...” You feel weak, you feel wrong. This can’t be real. It’s not real. Where am I? Who am I?

 And etched into the wall right in front of you, surrounded by your name: Remember who you are.

 You blink, breathing heavily, and you’re outside. The door was never open. The door was never there. You trace your fingers against the wall, and it just feels like a wall. It’s just a wall. A wall with some really nice wallpaper, wallpaper that you picked out not long before the wedding. You agreed on flowers, because they were nice to look at - didn’t you agree on stripes?

 You keep blinking. You can still see its silhouette in the split second where your eyes haven’t fully closed yet, and when they’re not fully open.

 But there was a door. You could have sworn there was a door there, it led to the laundry room - you feel all over the wall and find the place where the doorknob should be, and you feel something solid but see nothing. What the hell is going on –

 …

 “Darling, I’m home!”

 John’s voice rings out from behind you and you suck in a breath, whipping around to see him come in through the front door. The sun’s already set. Darling. He’s never really called you darling, hasn’t he? You take in a shaky breath, and call back - “Yes, honey?”

 John lifts his arms for a hug, grinning brightly and dressed in completely different clothes from when he left. “Where’s my lovely wife?”

 My lovely wife, I was never your lovely wife, but you rush into his arms anyway. He stumbles back at the force of your embrace, slowly wrapping his arms around you and patting your hair. This is comfort you’re used to, but not in this context. And now all the things he did this morning seem so different - “Hey - what’s wrong? Are you okay?”

 “I’m-” Not sure about who I am. John’s hold loosens on you slightly, and he leans away from you to look into your eyes. “I think something’s wrong.”

 “Oh, nothing’s wrong, nothing’s ever been wrong,” John says. But everything is wrong - how is he not getting it? “But tell me.”

 “The laundry room,” you mumble, even though that place was definitely not the laundry room. John’s eyebrows furrow slightly.

 “We’ve never had a laundry room.” He looks over your shoulder at the place that’s just a wall, and frowns. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

 “But - there was a door there,” you say, wrenching yourself away from John’s arms and walking to the wall. The wallpaper flickers between flowers and stripes. You feel against the wall until you hit something solid, something round. “There’s a door here right now.”

 John squints. “I don’t see it.”

 “Look,” you stress. You grab his hand and place it on the doorknob, and when you look up the door is back, beautiful and blue and now you know what it reminds you of. “Open the door.”

 “Darling, I don’t -”

 “Stop calling me darling and open the door, Doctor!” you snap, and John pulls his hand away from the doorknob, his mouth hanging open in shock.

 “That’s not my name,” he insists. “You’re not feeling well.”

 “I’m feeling very well, thank you very much,” you grumble. Remember who you are. “Please, just open the door. For me.”

 John - but also not John - stares at you, his mouth set in a hard line. You recognize that look and you recognize him, who he really is, and he’s not your husband. After a moment, he sighs, places his hand on the doorknob, and twists it, flinging the door open.

 The room is illuminated now, all of the scratched writing clear to see - Remember, you have to remember who you are. There are so many more sketches now, and they blur and shift right in front of your eyes. You’re all in places you recognize - Starship UK, ancient Egypt, the planet of the Gargotins. You grab John’s hand and lead him to one of the sketches on the wall.

 “I remember this,” John mumbles. He presses his hands to the wall. “This was a dream I had. You and me together at the end of the world.”

 “When?” you ask.

 “L-last night,” he replies. You grab the front of his shirt and he gasps.

 “Then what did we do last night?”

 “I don’t remember.”

 The whole dream shatters when you find one, tiny, hairline crack in the illusion. There was never a “last night”. “You don’t remember or you don’t know?!”

 John opens his mouth to say something, but then he closes it, deep in thought. You can see the gears turning in his head - just like the morning, when nothing was wrong and everything was perfect and he was your husband - but they’re turning too slowly, which isn’t like who he really is. The room starts to darken, the writing that’s brought you back fading away. You’re running out of time.

 You grip his shirt tighter and shake him. “You need to remember! Who you really are - it’s got to be locked in your big brain somewhere! You’re not John Smith, you’re not my husband, you’re The Doctor!”

 “The - the Doctor…” he stammers, raising his hands to his head, his eyes widening in realization.

 “Yes, that’s you! Two thousand years old! An alien! Come on!”

 “The Doctor - I am the Doctor!” Suddenly, the Doctor grins and grabs you by the shoulders, pulling you into a tight hug. He laughs, his arms wrapped around you, squeezing you slightly before he lets go. “Oh, it feels good to be me again. Hair - good. Eyes - still got ‘em. Bowtie -” His hand shoots up to his collar. He frowns when he doesn’t feel anything there - “Could be worse.”

 “Doctor, where are we?”

 “Dunno. I can’t tell if it’s a simulation or an actual set. If it’s a simulation, then it’s not a good one.” The Doctor whirls around, examining the walls. He lifts his hand to place it in his jacket, looking for his sonic - then he groans when he realizes he was never wearing a jacket. “Empty pockets!”

 “Oh, again?”

 The entire room shakes and you stumble - the voice sounds like it’s coming from everywhere without a clear source, and it also sounds vaguely annoyed. The Doctor quickly grabs your hand and squeezes it tight in silent comfort, and now you wish he hadn’t done all of those things in the morning. You glance at his serious face and silently thank whatever gods are out there that he hasn’t mentioned any of it, at all.

 “Marlene. Marlene!”

 There’s another voice, timid and shy. “Yes, ma’am?”

 “Subjects 11A and 11B have escaped immersion. Again. For the fifth time this cycle. Did you forget to intensify their wipes?”

 “No, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”

 “They’re awake now, so they’re no use to us. Reset them and -”

 “WAIT!” Your plea comes out louder than expected. The Doctor glances at you, and when you meet his gaze, confusion and concern swim in his eyes. “At least tell us what’s going on!”

 “Sorry, 11B, but that’s classified information. You should know, you’ve asked me this before.”

 “Well, it would do us a world of good if we knew!” the Doctor says loudly. “Who are you?”

 “I’ll say it again. Classified information.” There’s a spitting sound, and then another laugh. “I don’t have time for this.”

 “Well then make time!” you shout, and the Doctor pulls you closer to him.

 “Oh, 11A, or should I say the Doctor. Not so ‘Oncoming Storm’ now, are you? Do you want me to tell you what happens to your poor little companion if you keep going like this? Or do you want a demonstration?”

 “What it’s talking about?” You look up at the Doctor. His eyes are trained on the ceiling, and they’re burning with anger.

 “I don’t know. Keep quiet,” he mutters. Then, raising his voice again, “We’ll keep trying! We’ll keep trying to get out!”

 You hear a deep chuckle. “Then good luck. Reset them.”

 A wave of exhaustion passes over you, and through your haze you reach out for the Doctor - you still have to keep him safe -

 You’re out before you even hit the floor, the Doctor’s hand still wrapped in yours.

[lostinmirkwood]

Gendrya Kinktober Day 19- Formalwear

Find it on AO3 here.

The first time Arya sees Gendry in a suit is as he’s opening the door to his flat when she arrives to pick him up for Robb and Talisa’s wedding. They haven’t been dating for long but Gendry’s familiar enough with the Starks that Arya feels comfortable enough to bring him as her plus-one to such a formal event. He’s wearing well fitted navy trousers and jacket, under which is a crisp white shirt. His cognac loafers sit near the door while he fiddles with his tie as he opens the door to let her in. They both pause and stare at each other for a moment.

Arya’s hair is swept up into a formal knot for the occasion with a few loose tendrils curling near her neck and Sansa had done her makeup just before she’d left to get Gendry. They’re unintentionally matching Arya realizes as she drops the hem of her dark blue gown she’d been holding so she didn’t trip on her way up the stairs in her heels. Eventually she snaps out of it enough to step forward into his flat. “I just need to tie this and we can go,” he says, gesturing to the silk around his neck, hands making no move to return to their task as his eyes continue to drink her in.

Arya rolls her eyes at him and steps in close, batting his hands out of her way as she takes hold of the ends of his tie. Gendry’s breath stutters for a moment as her nimble fingers make short work of the knot before smoothing down his chest. They settle at his hips for a moment as she looks up at him, still small next to him even in her heels. She gently tugs him even closer before pecking him on the lips and stepping back towards the door with a smile. “Hurry up you silly bull, I can’t be late for my brother’s wedding!”

Gendry shakes his head, trying to clear the light smell of her perfume that had further muddled his thoughts at the sight of her done up. Checking his pockets he gives her a quick pat on the bum as he guides her out the door down to the waiting car. She’s going to be the death of him one day, he swears.

---

Arya gets called away by her mother moments after they arrive and when she returns she finds him surrounded by a few of Talisa’s cousins. She leaves him to fend for himself when she’s called away for pictures before finding him again, her ancient Great Aunt Branda clinging to his arm as she nattered on about gods knew what. Appearing by his side with a plate of canapés snagged from a passing waiter she traded him the food for her aunt, gently guiding the old woman to her table. Branda pats her hand as Arya sits her down, commenting that Arya had found herself “quite the strapping young lad, were I 70 years younger young lady…”. She steps away to get them drinks and returns to find a law school friend of Robb’s with her hand on his arm as he subtly tries to lean away. Handing him his glass of whiskey she coolly smiles at the woman before taking his arm and dragging him to their table.

“It’s the suit,” she says, with mock condemnation, “they can’t help themselves.”

Gendry looks adorably confused as they weave through the tables, unaware of the appreciative glances from both male and female guests alike in his wake. “What do you mean?” He asks as they find their seats.

“Have you seen yourself today? I knew I’d need to keep a close eye on you or one of these slags might think you’re available to take home!”

Gendry smiles down at her, pulling her chair out and whispering in her ear, “No way, m’lady. You’re the only one I’m taking home tonight.” She gives him a kiss on the cheek as he sits next to her, Bran and Rickon groaning as they see and Gendry’s ears turn a bit pink.

Dinner is delicious. The Starks had clearly spared no expense for the wedding of their eldest child. Everything looked as though it came out of a magazine spread, including the beautiful woman seated next to him, laughing with her younger siblings through the multiple courses. Rickon joked that if all Stark weddings were to be like this he’d run off and live in the woods to escape their mother and a six course dinner menu. Bran declared that he’d just live in sin. Arya snorted into her glass of wine at her brothers’ antics, saying, “If I get married I’m doing it on a beach in Dorne. You all can find out afterwards and help stop Mum from going ballistic.”

---

After another extraction, this time from a particularly enthusiastic bridesmaid who had cornered him near the dance floor, Arya takes Gendry’s hand and pulls him down a hallway. Opening a door seemingly at random she shoves him into an empty lavatory. He sputters an apology as she locks the door behind her. She’s not sure why, she knows he’s not trying for the attention, he’s done nothing but look damn good in that suit. She grabs him by the lapels and pulls him down to her, slamming her mouth into his for an aggressive kiss that shuts him up. Gendry immediately stops talking, kissing her back with enthusiasm.

Arya breaks away enough to say, “I know you aren’t trying, but like I said, you look fucking hot. I’m just claiming what’s mine. Now.”

Gendry grins and pulls her to him again, walking her back until she bumps into the counter. With a small jump he has her set on the edge of the marble so he doesn’t have to bend as much to reach her lips. His tongue slides into her mouth and his hands traverse her back to settle on her thighs as he begins to ruck the fabric of her dress up to her hips so he can step between her legs. Arya lets out a soft moan when he grinds himself against her. Her head tips back against the mirror and Gendry’s lips leave hers to move down her exposed throat.

“Can’t… can’t leave any marks,” Arya gasps out when he nips softly at her neck.

Gendry growls slightly and his hands dip under her skirts to feather up the smooth skin of her thighs. He lifts his head slightly, making eye contact with her as his fingers catch the lace edge of her thong. With a frantic nod Arya lifts her hips enough for him to slide the scrap of fabric off, raising an eyebrow as he tucks it into his jacket pocket.

“You can’t keep that. I’m not walking out of here without my underwear, my entire family is out there.”

Gendry merely smirks before dropping to his knees in front of her. He kisses his way up her thighs before licking her wide open. Arya’s head thuds against the mirror again and she tucks a leg over his broad shoulder, still in his navy jacket. She can’t see what he’s doing with the fabric piled in her lap but Gendry makes short work of her, licking and sucking her clit until she’s gasping and muffling her noises with her hand. Her hand grips his hair as she comes, needing to ground herself. He rises from below her skirts with a satisfied smile on his face. Arya grabs his tie and yanks him down to her, desperately kissing him, tasting herself on his tongue. His hands return to her hips as they make out on the vanity, Arya’s hands now running over his chest and shoulders.

“Look at you,” she coos when they part for breath, “Still all done up and looking like a gentleman.”

A quick glance towards the mirror shows his hair is a disaster from her hands and his pupils are blown but his suit is hardly rumpled despite her wandering hands. At his momentary distraction one of Arya’s hands drops to palm his erection through his slacks and he tears his eyes from the mirror to see her wicked smirk.

“Oh? What do we have here? Maybe not such a gentleman after all. Have you been thinking naughty thoughts, Mr. Baratheon? How long have you been wanting to get under my skirts today?”

Gendry groans quietly, “Since you walked in my door smelling like heaven and looking like this. Gods, Arry. You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Arya’s hand continues to squeeze him through his trousers. His cock is straining towards her, begging for more attention. She happily gives it, undoing his belt and pulling him free of his boxers. She gives him a few full strokes before reaching for her clutch he didn’t even realize she’d brought with her. With a grin she pulls out a condom, opens it, and rolls it on. Just as he’s about to thrust into her she stops him with a hand on his chest. Gendry freezes, looking up at her in askance. She moves him a step back and slides off the counter, skirts falling back to the floor as she stands. With a wink she turns to face the mirror and leans over, hauling her skirts back up and baring her pretty pale arse to him before bending over and grabbing the marble edge.

“Well? Come on then, I just wanted to watch.”

Death. Of. Him. Meeting her eyes in the mirror Gendry grabs her hips and slides into her with a smooth thrust. A few gentle rocks and he bottoms out. Arya gasps as he does, eyes glued to them both in the mirror. They’re both fully dressed, clothes pulled aside just enough for access and that makes the image even hotter. Gendry pulls back and thrusts again, Arya rocking on her toes with his motion, her grip tightening on the edge of the counter. They maintain eye contact as Gendry begins to thrust into her faster. He’s already close after getting under her skirts to eat her out and he’s not going to last long with the warm clutch of her around him. He takes one of his hands from her waist to find her clit. Brushing the swollen bud makes her cry out before she claps a hand over her mouth. He begins to circle it in time with his thrusts, driving her higher and higher until she tightens around him and shouts into her palm. The feel of her coming undone beneath him sends him over the edge and he drops his forehead to her bare shoulder as he tries to calm his breathing.

After a moment Arya begins to wriggle under him, “You’re squishing me you big bull. We need to get back out there before someone notices we’re gone and I have to answer awkward questions.”

Gendry smacks a kiss to her shoulder before standing to dispose of the condom. He tucks himself back into his pants and washes his hands as Arya straightens her dress and reapplies her lipstick in the mirror. When she holds her hand out to him he grabs it and begins to move towards the door.

Arya digs her heels in, “I need my underwear, Gendry. I’m not going out there bare-arsed.”

Gendry smirks and drops a kiss on her lips, “Your arse is plenty covered by that lovely dress of yours. These are mine for now.”

He unlocks the door and steps into the hall before she can respond and nearly runs smack dab into Sansa. He pulls the door shut behind him and leans on the frame. “Oh, hey Sansa,” he says, aiming for casual and praying Arya hears him and stays quiet for just a moment.

“Gendry!” Sansa grins at him and he can’t tell if she knows what he and her sister were just up to or she’s a little drunk and actually happy to see him, “have you seen Arya? I needed her help with something and I can’t find her anywhere!”

“Uh… Nope! Haven’t seen her for a minute. Stepped out to, uh, get some air and was about to head back to the ballroom…” he trails off, Sansa’s smile growing wider. “Well, when you see my sister, let her know I’m looking for her and in the meantime you might want to fix your hair before you return. You look like you got attacked by a… wolf,” with that Sansa turns and heads back the way she’d come.

Gendry sighs and steps out of the way as the lavatory door swings open. Arya looks like she was trying to hold in her laughter and was failing. “So Sansa knows,” he mutters, leaning his head on the wall.

“Yeah, I’ll say. Nice try though. That’s okay, I saw her and Theon necking behind the restaurant during the rehearsal dinner so she won’t say anything.”

He holds out his hand to her and Arya laces her fingers with his as they make their way back towards the ballroom. Gendry can’t refuse her when she pulls him onto the floor, spinning her around and swaying with her as the music changes. The lights are low and a slow song begins playing as they dance together, his arms wrapped around her waist as hers curled around his neck. His forehead rests against hers as they stare into each other's eyes other lost in their own world. Dorne, he thinks, I could do a beach in Dorne with her one day.

[fizzyxcustard]

Something Borrowed (1)

Fandom: North and South (modern AU)

Summary: Requested by the wonderful @dabisburntnut Your eldest sister is getting married and you have been invited. However, your family are quite pushy about hooking you up with someone, so you ask your boss (and friend), John Thornton to go with you. 

Pairings: Modern!John Thornton x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Silliness, insecurity, drunkenness, very slight anxiety mention, slight overweight!reader mention. 

Word count: 1544

Comments/Notes: My newest tag list is still under construction, so by all means send me an ask or message if you want to be added for all fics, a particular series or fandom. I’m using Lucas North as my modern!John Thornton. Come on, it’s RA anyway. ;) 

Music listened to while writing this piece: ASMR video by FredsVoice ASMR on YouTube.

Masterlist of fan fiction here

It was your lunch break. You plopped down in the seat opposite John, your boss and owner of the factory where you worked as his receptionist. “Can I borrow you for the weekend?” you asked, grinning.

John looked up from the stack of papers on his desk and gave a tired smile.

“You bloody well need it by the looks of it,” you said, seeing the dark circles beneath your friend’s eyes. Had John been sleeping at work again? A couple of times you’d come in at half seven, only to find him asleep in his chair, arms and head on the desk.

“Isn’t your sister getting married?” John asked, stretching back in his seat.

“She is, and my mum is pushing at me to take a guest with me, preferably a man,” you sighed.

“Ahh, a means to an end?” John chuckled wryly.

“No. I didn’t say that,” you replied. “I was thinking of asking you before, but you’ve been so snowed under with all these orders and signing them off, and opening up the new factory, I didn’t think you’d want to go. Or have time to. I’m comfortable with you, John. I don’t feel that with many people.”

John couldn’t help but smile shyly at you. “Well, I’m glad you feel like that.”

“The wedding is at some large country townhouse. Most of what my sister tells me just goes in one ear and out the other, so I don’t really know. All I know is that I’m getting a lift up with my auntie and uncle. We don’t want to take too many cars, so we’re all piling in as few as we can.”

John leaned forward in his chair and watched you, your arms moving this way and that as you explained everything to him. He loved watching you gesticulate; you were so passionate and every word you spoke always sounded so heartfelt. You did nothing by half measure. So if he had been invited to such a close family member’s wedding, then you must have really thought a lot of him.

When you left the office, John sighed to himself and leaned back in his chair, looking out the window behind him. His heart was finally beginning to settle back down to its normal rhythm. You always had this effect on him, but he enjoyed every second of it. The only thing he didn’t enjoy was pondering constantly if you actually felt something for him as he did you. Each lunch break you shared with him; you text each other regularly out of work and, a few times, John had even given you a lift to and from work when your car was being repaired.

***

For the next three days, you began searching for your dress. Of course, like you normally did, you left things to the last minute if they were things you didn’t want to do. Seeing your sister get married was not something that particularly bothered you; she had always seemed to dislike you, constantly taking the opposite stance to you in debates, and she made it clear that her life was more complete because she now had a man she was about to marry and had three children from a previous relationship. Her husband to be wasn’t much better either. Most of the time he ignored you, only passing pleasantries because he felt obliged. The saving grace in all of this was John. He would be your comfort and your familiarity. None of your family made sense to you. Your parents were middle-aged, fairly well off, and found more interest in their twice yearly holidays in Spain and Italy. Your two sisters had their own lives to lead now, and you rarely saw them.

It hadn’t come as a surprise that your sister hadn’t chosen you to be a bridesmaid or her maid of honour. Those titles went to your sister’s best friends, more people who looked down on you like you were a piece of excrement they had just trod in.

By the time you chose your dress, it was almost closing time, two days before the big day. You had settled on a lilac strap dress. It was quite modest, simple and wouldn’t (hopefully) bring too much attention to your thicker curves.

***

On the morning of your travel to the wedding venue, you got up and began your normal routine of shower, breakfast and podcasts on your phone. John would be arriving at ten and then your aunt and uncle at eleven to pick you both up. Your uncle was nearing eighty now so you had asked John if he would possibly take over driving half way as the town house was about a two-hour drive away in the middle of nowhere.

Your small suitcase was ready for the two-night stay away. The voice of a kind man spoke into your ears as he discussed ways of combating anxiety and making the most of your life. Listening to podcasts in a morning and journaling always encouraged you to meet the day with a brave face, and today you would desperately need that brave face. The thought of all your judgemental family in one place didn’t particularly please you. If only the earth could open up and you could disappear somewhere for a couple of days.

John arrived at ten promptly. You let him in and closed your eyes, basking in his wonderful aroma as he wafted past you. “Do you want any breakfast?” you asked.

“I already ate before I came out,” he replied. John placed his weekender bag down in the hallway next to your wheelie suitcase.

***

The drive to the venue was quite uneventful. Your uncle Mike drove slowly and you couldn’t help but keep looking across at John from your seat, ready to laugh at the speed. In the middle of you was your five-year-old niece, Lily. She kept looking up at John, grinning.

“Is this your boyfriend?” Lily asked you.

“No, he’s my friend,” you replied, blushing hard.

“Come on now, dear. You’d make a lovely couple,” your aunt Janet chuckled.

John folded his arms and looked out of the car window. You couldn’t help but feel sorry for him; his long legs made him look incredibly uncomfortable, as though he had been folded over many times to fit in the car.

“You should be looking for a nice husband, you know?” uncle Mike said, looking at you through the review mirror. “Mr. Thornton here seems like a good match.”

“Can we just change topic, please?” you insisted. “I think you’re embarrassing him.”

“We didn’t mean anything by it,” aunt Janet replied, sounding sad for upsetting you both.

Once you had arrived at the large house, the grounds covered in acres of trees, plantations and fountains, you all grabbed your belongings from the car and began a steady walk to the hotel which was situated just behind.

Lily held your hand, and for the first time you wondered why she had been forced to come with you. Why hadn’t she gone with your mum and dad? Not that you minded your niece coming along, but it seemed quite harsh breaking her up from her siblings. At least she was with family.

“Auntie (y/n)?” Lily asked politely.

“Yes, sweets?”

She beckoned you down with her small hand so she could whisper in your ear. Her high pitched, melodic voice became low in your ear. “Can you ask Mr. Thornton to dance with me?”

“I’m sure he won’t mind,” you replied, looking over at John.

“Pardon?” John asked, still looking a little uncomfortable and out of place.

“Lily was asking if you’d dance with her at the reception.”

John bent down to the little blonde haired girl and smiled. “You’ll be first on my list,” he said.

The sight of John interacting with your niece made you feel something warm in your chest and it spread outward through you.

“Come on, darlings,” aunt Janet called.

The hotel behind the main venue was a lot more modern, having television screens in the reception and plenty of coffee machines. “Hello,” a well set, dark-haired man said, offering you all a smile. He was dressed in a black suit and you noticed the name Peter on his name badge. “You must be part of the group for the wedding planned for this weekend?”

“We are,” aunt Janet said.

You still kept hold of Lily’s hand and watched John avert his gaze towards the door, as though he wanted to disappear and never be seen again.

“You’ve all been booked into rooms. Can I take all of your names, please?” Peter asked.

Of course you knew that Lily would have to check in properly with her mum and dad, who were strangely absent. Considering that your uncle drove so slow, you seemed to be the first group who had arrived.

Peter then turned to you and John. “I see we just have a ‘plus one’ for you, Sir,” he told John. “But can we take a name.”

“John Thornton.”

“That has all been checked for you. A king-size room is now available for you both.”

You blanched. “Is that one bed or two?” you asked.

“It’s one large bed.”

Oh, shit!

Main tag list: @shikin83​ @deepestfirefun​ @emrfangirl​ @dabisburntnut​ @aspookybunny​ @karlthecat15722​ @tigereyesf​ @swoopswishsward​ @sunnysidesidra @la-meneur-louve​ @moony-artnstuff​ @mama-tole-me-not-2-come​ @wolfavatar17​ @morganofthecoves1​ @narnvaeron​ @hobbitoferebor​ @meganlpie​ @thequeenoferebor​ @mynameisnoneya1991​ @jumpingmanatee​ @xxbyimm​ @annewoods91 @nowiloveandwilllove​ @inhabitant-of-the-void​ @thorinthehottotty​ @rachel1959​ @reinabell​ @paracosmfantasy​ @blankdblank​ @sherala007​ @creativelyquestioninglife​ @c-s-stars​ @phyreblue​ @middleearthmama​ @luna-xial​ 

[eleven-times-lively]

The Wedding

In which you and Fred finally tie the knot, but not before some nerves get in the way.💕

Summary: Fred Weasley x Reader get married Word Count: 2908 Note: I was reluctant to post this as Chapter 1 didn’t seem too well received. I welcome feedback and constructive advice!

You stirred as you started to wake up. Your head on your fiance’s chest, limbs entangled. You breathed in Fred’s scent: musky but fresh, like an open field. You were still for a moment, smiling to yourself. Engaged, you thought. None of it seemed real yet. It had been two days, and while you knew you were now betrothed, the realisation of “holy crap I’m going to be married to this man” hadn’t quite fully set in. As if hearing your thoughts, Fred stirred.

“Morning beautiful.”

“Hi Freddie”, you grinned ear to ear.

He leaned forward and kissed your forehead. “What’s got you so excited this morning love?”

“Nothing in particular, Freddie. Just waking up with you is all.”

He brushed a hair from your ear, sitting up in the small bed in the small flat you shared. You both hoped to move to something more suitable for marriage in the future. “I love you so much, doll.”

You straddled his lap to adjust to him sitting, not in a peculiar way, just becoming comfortable. “I love you, Freddie.” You leaned forward to kiss him. He kissed back, humming into your lips, the moment could have lasted forever.

*5 months later*

You and Fred had been planning for months, with some assistance from Ginny, Molly,

and Fleur. It was Christmastime, and you were set to be wed on Valentines Day. You had chosen

France as the location. The wedding would still be small, but it felt more special than something you’d do at home in England. And besides, Fleur knew all the best spots and you trusted her, she was your Matron of Honour after all. Fred had predictably selected George as his best man.

“What’s it matter if the flowers are peach rose or beach rose?” Fred asked with a groan. It had been a long day.

“Elegance!” Fleur exclaimed, seemingly floating across the room with her clipboard.

going between various boards with information around the room.

“That… and, Freddie, you of all people should know that the pinkist, peachiest roses are my favorite.”

“I do, love. This is all just stressful.”

“That it is.” chimed Ginny, who had married Harry just two years earlier. “How much is left to do?”

“Well I think-” you had started to say when Fleur piped up from her clipboard.

“Finalising the flower arrangements, the seating chart, and arranging for a photographer… oh and the cake!” she paused before the last piece, as if it had slipped her mind, but of course nothing could when every little detail was plastered somewhere around the room.

It was getting late, and everyone was growing tired. Harry and Bill came to fetch their brides as you turned to Fred. “Ready for bed, love?”

“Absolutely!” Fred exclaimed, giving you a quick kiss before practically dragging you upstairs.

*2 months later*

It was February 13, the night before your wedding. You were staying with Fleur in the Delacour family home with Ginny, Molly, Hermione, and Angelina. Fred, along with George, Harry, Ron, Bill, Charlie, and Arthur were off in another cottage. It was late and you were up with Fleur and Hermione.

“Are you nervous?” Hermione asked from above her teacup, perched on the couch across from you in the living room.

“I’m nervous that something may go wrong, but as for the whole marriage part of it, not at all. Fred is the love of my life. I’ve known him for ten years, and there’s no one else I’d rather spend the rest of my life with.”

You thought Fleur was just about to fall out of her chair. “Mon dieu! Nothing goes wrong at a wedding I plan....” she trailed off, remembering her own wedding. “Do you think anything will change between you two, in the relationship?” She had collected herself and was gazing into her tea, as if the leaves had just told her some terrible news.

“I mean, I don’t believe so. Are we meant to just change our whole dynamic with the flip of a switch just because our names are together on a piece of paper? Or perhaps expect things to go awry the moment we say ‘I do’?” you chuckled at your own remark. “Freddie and I love each other, and I don’t think our almost ten year relationship can get any stronger. We can be married with no trouble at all.”

“Exactly. It’s been just over a year for me and Ron, and if anything, we are more in love than before.” Hermione added.

Fleur huffed so low you almost didn’t hear it. “Just be careful.”

With that the three of you retreated to your rooms, ready for the day ahead.

                                                              ***

The next day you woke up extra early. The ceremony was set for one, but Fleur insisted you wake up at seven to have enough time for “preparations”. It was now eight and everyone was getting ready. Fleur (and Bill) insisted on paying for hair and makeup services for the six of you. Hours later, you had put on your dress and were just about ready to leave for the venue. Your dress was simple, yet stunning. Fitting and flattering on top, full length and expanded outward past the waist, donned with long, lace sleeves and dipped neckline, you looked like a princess. Being in France and being spoiled by Fleur certainly made you feel like one. Fleur was your only bridesmaid, as you and Fred had agreed to keep it to one each to avoid any hurt feelings, thus avoiding a wedding party of over twenty. Fleur wore a gown similar to yours. I was baby blue and strapless, but featured the same lace bodice and a less flared skirt.. The wedding colors were decided to be peach and baby blue, something you and Fred came up with without assistance. 

                                                              ***

Fred and the others hadn’t woken up until around nine, as there wasn’t much to do. Ron, Harry, Bill, Charlie and Mr. Weasley all put on their suits of choice for the occasion. Meanwhile Fred was in the fanciest suit either of you had seen, picked out by Fleur. He sported a peach bowtie that surprisingly complemented his complexion. His boutineer was made of a trimmed peach rose and baby blue wildflowers. George matched him to a tee, but in a less flashy suit and a baby blue bowtie. You figured that the guests would need something to tell them apart. Fred and George were in one of the upstairs bedrooms shortly before having to leave.

“I’m bloody terrified, mate.” Fred had tears in his eyes, seated at the end of the bed.

George stood above him, consoling yet almost unsure of what to do, as he’d never seen emotions like this from Fred. “You aren’t having second thoughts are you? I can’t imagine you are.”

“What? Bloody hell George of course not. But what if I’m not good enough.”

“What in the world do you mean Fred?”

“I mean sure we were cute in Hogwarts, and even past that, but what if that’s all we are? Some teen romance that’s living on borrowed time? What if we get a month into this and realise we’ve been living some kind of pipe dream and we aren’t equipped for marriage?” Fred was sobbing at this point, something very unusual. Bill, Ron, and Charlie rushed upstairs at the sound, knowing a problem calling for a brother’s understanding needed to be solved.

“Fred, don’t talk like that. Look at any of us and you’ll see none of that is true. Ron and Hermione, George and Angelina, even me and Fleur, we knew our wives since Hogwarts, and none of us could be happier.” Bill chimed in from the back.

“I can’t exactly relate here, but even I know you sound crazy… more than usual.” Charlie added from next to Bill.

The four of them stared at Fred, who had collected himself. “I know that, and I know I’m being irrational. I just want the best for her… for us.”

“Of course you do, mate.” Ron chimed in. “And you know what? When you start thinking like that, in terms of “us”, that’s how you know you’re ready.” George and Bill gave nods of approval at his remark.

“Alrighty then. Well in that case, we have a wedding to get to!” Fred stood up from the bed, seemingly renewed, as he darted out the door.

                                                               ***

The ceremony hall was immaculate. Rows of perfectly lined chairs to accommodate the Weasleys, friends, and your family. The ceremony had begun, the enchanted organ playing a soft melodic tune. Fred had come down the aisle, and when he did Mrs. Weasley was already in tears. She was in disbelief that her baby was getting married, with all but one now wed. Fred couldn’t stop smiling from ear to ear. Nothing particularly exciting had occurred yet, but as he stood before the crowd, he was full of more glee than ever before. George and Fleur came next, arms linked and Fleur carried her small bouquet. They both looked stunning, and happy to be the only two chosen to be in the wedding party. They took their respective places, with George and Fred exchanging and a small hug. Finally, it was your turn. You had lost your dad in the Battle of Hogwarts, and had no brothers or close male family members. However, the Weasley family had come to feel like your own, with the older children becoming your closest friends.. The doors opened and everyone rose, to see you arm-in-arm with Bill and Charlie. If Fred wasn’t crying as the doors opened, he certainly was as you came down the aisle. A collective, yet soft gasp came over the crowd, stunned at your beauty. You had tears in your eyes you were trying to hold in. Holding your large bouquet and enjoying the moment, you reached the front of the room. You hugged the brothers as they took their seats.

“Hi.” you whispered at Fred, so low that not even the officiant had heard. You handed your bouquet to Fleur and took Fred’s hands.

“Hi yourself, gorgeous.” his trademark smirk came out with his words.

You were both trying to hold back the tears that yearned to flow. Fred caught up in your beauty and grace, and you in the prospect of being connected to the man before you for eternity. 

“Dearly beloved…” the officiant began; you and Fred never leaving each other’s gaze. After a few moments, “it has come to the portion of the ceremony for the couple to recite their vows. Y/n and Fred have chosen to write their own. The miss will begin.”

You took a deep, shaky breath, Fred smiling down at you as you began. “Fred,” you got the one word out when your voice broke and the tears began to fall. You giggled, as it was almost comical. “Fred, my love, my rock, my angel.” now he was crying. “From the moment I first saw you, I knew you were the one for me. Your kindness, wit, and damn... that smile, I’ve loved you since day one. I have loved the same man since I was fourteen, and now I’m here today marrying him. It was said to me by a friend that I’d know I truly wanted to spend forever with you once we’d been through hell and back together. Fred, we’ve been through more than most together, only growing stronger. You’ve been there through the good, the bad, and the ugly, and have still managed to stick around. From our first date, first kiss, first love, you’ve been the most amazing person I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. You have an affect on me I can’t explain. Fred, you make me a kinder, gentler person, my equalizing force. Bloody hell, you’ve got me up here pouring my heart out in front of our family, you bloke. We’ve had quite the time together, I can’t wait to continue this wonderful journey. I love you Fred, more than anything, therefore I pledge my faith to thee.” Fred looked down at you as if you held the most beautiful parts of the world in your hands. He had tears streaming down his face and he mouthed an ‘I love you’ at you.

“And now for the vows prepared by Mr. Weasley.”

“Y/n, you are by far the most gorgeous, kind, smart, caring, witty, and did I mention beautiful, person I’ve ever had the grace to know. You, quite literally, came tumbling into my life, and damn if it didn’t make it better by tenfold. You are truly a force of nature, my dear. Through our ups and downs you’ve taken life by the bootstraps and walked through with grace and such conviction that the Earth stops for you, or at least I did. I remember our first kiss, y/n. It was a month after I asked you out, and we were in the astronomy tower. I leaned down, whispered “can I kiss you?” and your reply was a simple “well I’ve been waiting for a month, Fred.” as you pulled me in yourself. It’s that drive, that conviction, and the undying love that stems from it, that has kept me around all these years. It also doesn’t hurt that you’re bloody stunning. George said to me the day after we met, “I have a good feeling about her mate, better keep her around.” and damn if he wasn’t right. You’ve proven to be an amazing person, and even better partner… in life and… other endeavours. I want you to be my Mrs. Weasley forever, y/n, therefore I pledge my faith to thee.” He was grinning, and still crying, as were you. You were impressed with the poignant literary skills your husband had brandished.

“And now for the rings.” The rings floated in, enchanted by one of the Weasleys. “Miss y/n will begin.”

“Fred, I present you this ring as a reminder of my constant, undying love. From this day forward, I vow to love, honour, cherish, and respect you. In sickness and in health, in poverty and wealth, till death do us part. With this ring, I thee wed.” You slipped the ring onto his finger.

“Y/n, I give to you this ring as an object of my love, passion, and faith to you. From this day on, I promise to love, honour, value, and hold you in the highest, as long as we are wed. For sickness or for health, for rich or for poor, till death do us part. With this ring, I thee wed.” He slipped the ring onto your finger, giving your hand a kiss.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. Mr. Weasley, you may now kiss your bride.”

His arms wrapped around your waist as he dipped you both and brought you into the most loving, meaningful kiss you’d shared. The moment could have lasted a lifetime, neither of you wanted to break. He pulled his lips away slightly. “I love you, y/n”, before you both resumed your standing positions. Fleur returned your bouquet as you and Fred stood forward and clasped hands.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I now present to you, for the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Fred Weasley!”

Cheers erupted from your audience and you and Fred commenced the recessional, followed by Fleur and George. Everyone streamed out, all ready to enjoy the reception ahead.

                                                               ***

Before heading to photos, you and Fred had snuck away to a hidden bedroom within the reception villa. You wanted a moment alone in each other’s company before your night was focused on the party and your guests.

“We’re married now, love.” Fred was once again fighting back tears as you both sat on the bed. “I’ve wanted to call you mine, officially, since fourth year, and look at us now… Mrs. Weasley.” The word sounded like pure honey coming off his tongue.

“I love you, Freddie, I can’t wait to begin this new chapter with you… Mr. Weasley.” He brought his thumb up to wipe a tear from your cheek that had fallen.

The two of you were silent, enjoying the warmth and company. You stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, the same thoughts seeming to run through your heads. You rested your head on Fred’s chest. He kissed your forehead before setting his chin down on your head. The moment lasted forever, you both finding solace in the other’s steady breathing. Fred sensed you about to fall asleep to the rhythmic rising and falling of his chest. He kissed your forehead and you stirred. You lifted your head up enough for him to kiss you on the lips. The deep kiss evolved as you both sat up and you straddled his lap. You began to kiss down his neck when he had to interrupt.

“Hey, y/n?”

“Hmm?” You said, now fiddling with his bowtie.

“As much as I want to absolutely ravish you, that should wait for tonight. We have a party to attend, you’ll never believe who the guests of honour are.” You huffed, genuinely disappointed. “I knowwww”, you said, dragging out the last letter.

He picked you up bridal-style, carrying you out of the room and outside where the photographer and your family were waiting. You shared in one last  kiss before embarking on your first adventure as a married couple.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 9: Follow The Rules]

Hi y’all, I hope you are all doing well 💜

Chapter summary: Veronica has some questions, Roger has a plan, John has a short temper. 

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, medical stuff, pregnancy.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @bookandband​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​ @simonedk​ @herewegoagainniall​ @stardust-killer-queen​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

At the wedding, Roger is wearing a cast on his right arm and a dazzling smile...and a white suit that he looks criminally good in.

John is in black, Brian in blue, Freddie in maroon-colored velvet and heavy eyeliner. Veronica’s dress is high-waisted and falls in huge, billowing, shapeless ruffles to hide her silhouette. Her family knows, of course—it’s written all over the tense, grim lines of their mouths and the blades their pale eyes hurl at John—but none of those strict Catholics are going to mention an out-of-wedlock pregnancy in God’s house, nor at the modest reception in the church basement that follows the ceremony.

Veronica’s mother and aunts and sisters are just like her, docile and milky-skinned and small-boned, and you’ve helped them deck the vast room with enough flowers, ribbons, candles, and balloons to make everyone forget this event was thrown together in five weeks and on a shoestring budget. There’s a simple buffet with pot roast and potatoes and vegetables, a live band (some of John’s old friends from high school), and a homemade Polish honey cake baked by Veronica’s grandmother situated regally on a china serving dish. Veronica and John cycle through the tables of guests, smiling and nodding and thanking them for coming, dutifully and yet also seemingly genuinely cheerful.

“The boning is bloody impaling me,” Chrissie murmurs as she tugs at the bodice of her gown. It’s satin and a muted pink, just like yours and Mary’s and Veronica’s sisters’. “If I happen die, wrap me in one of those nice tablecloths I paid for and throw me in a ditch somewhere, will you love?”

“You got it.” You stab a piece of potato with your fork. “This should inspire you to be especially compassionate towards your own bridesmaids! Maybe no horrid shiny green.”

Brian chuckles. “Good luck with that.”

“Are you comfortable?!” Chrissie asks Mary, exasperated, fanning herself with a wedding program.

“I am,” Mary admits cautiously. “But...well...at the moment, I think my dress is a bit...roomier.”

Chrissie moans, dropping her face into her hands. “I always gain when the students go home for summer. My routine is wrecked, all I want to do is read Glamour magazines and listen to records, it’s too damn hot to go walking...and I adore ice cream.”

“I like you just fine,” Brian reassures her.

Freddie snickers as he taps his cigarette against an ashtray. “Yes, we’re all well aware of your anatomical preferences, Bri.”

Chrissie rolls her eyes. “Please do not elaborate.” She’s not offended—she’s far too used to Freddie’s shenanigans to be offended—but she’ll be embarrassed if he makes a scene at a wedding.

“Darling, I don’t care what anyone tries to tell you, plenty of men love a little extra meat on the bones. Particularly the ass bones.”

“We’re in God’s house!” you scold him in a hiss. “You’re going to give Great Aunt Zofia over there an aneurysm if she hears you!”

Roger quips: “Great Aunt Zofia stole the last kielbasa right out of my disabled, ineffectual  grasp, so fuck her.”

You all burst into shocked, uncontrollable laughter. Great Aunt Zofia squints judgmentally at the commotion from several tables away, gnawing on her kielbasa; she’s been glaring at John and Veronica—the Tetzlaffs’ very own fallen angel—since she first ambled into the church. Roger rocks back in his chair, smoking with his unbroken left arm, smirking cockily and basking in the distraction from the real world that the wedding has gifted you all tonight. He catches you watching him—marveling at him, truthfully—and winks.

John appears and rests his hands on the back of your chair. “What’s so amusing? I swear, I leave you people alone for two hours and you’re having all sorts of fun without me, I won’t stand for it!”

“It was a lovely ceremony,” you tell him. “I’d forgotten how beautiful Catholic weddings are, all the music and ambiance.”

“And from what I saw, you knew most of the words.”

“We have a lot of Irish people in Boston. Saint Patrick’s Day is bigger than Christmas.”

John points at Roger’s cast. “It’s not paining you too much, is it?”

Roger holds his Dark ‘n Stormy aloft, and ice clinks in the misted glass. “Enough of these, and I can’t feel anything. Numb to the world’s many disappointments. I highly recommend it.”

“Noted,” John replies. Roger has pills for his arm, but they only take the edge off. You don’t know that because he’s told you; Roger never tells you that he’s hurting, that he’s frustrated, that he’s afraid. He wears grins and flippant humor like a second skin, shrouding his wounds—both physical and disembodied, old and new—in darkness. Still...you can see all those words he doesn’t say swimming in the depths of his eyes. “I think I’ll hunt down a Manhattan myself.”

“Dad made an impression!” you tell John enthusiastically. “I’ll have to let him know, he’ll be overjoyed.”

“He mixes a good one, that’s for sure. I doubt Cousin Bartosz will be able to compare.” He casts a glance at a perplexed-looking, flame-haired teenager manning a tiny wet bar.

“Booze won’t help you heal,” Freddie informs Roger, checking his reflection in Mary’s makeup compact and fluffing his lustrous hair. “Eat your vegetables. Get more sleep. When do you start physical therapy, again?” Then, to you: “Darling, when does Roger start his therapy?”

Roger sighs. “I’ve got it handled, Fred.”

“Dear, don’t have a fit, I just want to make sure you’ll be ready—”

“I’ve got it handled,” Roger repeats, his tone a warning.

Brian breaks the tension with a toast, his Vesper jangling against Roger’s Dark ‘n Stormy. “I’m thrilled, honestly. Now I’m not the only one who’s ruined a tour.”

Roger grimaces. “Thanks, Bri.”

“Yes, let’s all have a turn,” Freddie mutters, sipping champagne. “Deaky can electrocute himself while fiddling with his amp, and then I’ll...what? Have my foot chewed off by an alligator in New Orleans? Get gored by a wild boar outside Atlanta? It just can’t be a boring maiming, that’s my only request.”

“Alaska has grizzlies, huge ones,” Brian suggests.

“Darling, in what dimension would my luxurious self ever end up in fucking Alaska?”

You shake your head, frowning down into your wine glass. It’s June now, the dead center of a crestfallen year: the rest of the Sheer Heart Attack Tour is cancelled, the record company is furious, and the band is broker than ever. Queen is supposed to start recording their next album—their last album, the record company insists, unless it happens to be a runaway success—in July, but you don’t know if Roger’s arm will be healed in time. None of you know that. You wonder if this really is God’s house, or at least one of his homes, sanctified piles of bricks and glass scattered across the globe; maybe you could ask Him where Queen’s future lies.

Veronica swoops in and dusts an airy kiss onto Mary’s cheek, and then Chrissie’s, and then yours. “Thank you so much,” she gushes. Her high cheekbones are flushed, her watery eyes sparkling. She’s in heaven, sinner or not. Her massive white dress swishes with every step. “We couldn’t have done it without you. And you’re next, Chris! I can’t wait.”

Chrissie smiles. She and Brian are getting married just before Christmas. “Yes, well, time will tell if we’ll be serving Christmas ham or canned beans.”

“And then Mary...” Veronica’s gaze migrates across the table. Mary’s been wearing a ring on her wedding finger since Queen returned from Japan, a simple gold band that once belonged to Freddie’s mother. “What about you, Y/N? Any plans? Then we’d all be hitched!”

Red wine spurts from your lips and you fumble for a cloth napkin. Roger doesn’t believe in marriage, and neither do you; not after only four months together, anyway. And yet...is there some part of you that can’t help but think of papers and rings when you get lost in his eyes, of promises of forever, of some way to tie yourself to him like vessels to a heart? Sure; and that’s a little wonderful, that’s a little terrifying. “Uh, uh, oh, oh no, definitely no plans whatsoever.”

“What bollocks!” Rog sneers. “Really, what’s the point if you’re not religious? Who needs a bloody piece of paper to prove they love someone?! ‘I care for you so much I need the government to know we’re together and the hassle of divorce fees to make me stay,’ what the fuck. I mean, uh, no offense John, Bri, uh...this is all well and good for you, but...ah...”

“It’s just not your scene. That’s fine, Rog,” Freddie says with a tad too much empathy. Mary doesn’t seem to notice.

“But you’ll want children at some point, won’t you?” Veronica asks you, almost pained. She’s not trying to be cruel, you realize; she genuinely can’t fathom the pinnacle of a woman’s life as anything but being a wife and mother.

“Theoretically, sure. One day. Eventually.” You titter nervously. Roger’s good arm circles your shoulders, his cigarette lofting smoke. Oh, but wouldn’t he make beautiful children? You push that thought away. It’s too soon, it’s too much, it’s not in the cards for an impoverished maybe-drummer and his girlfriend; and a girlfriend—with all the intangibility and impermanence that title entails—is all I’ll ever be. “I think I need to travel the world a bit more first.”

John sighs and pats the back of Veronica’s hand. What is that weight in his voice...impatience? Annoyance? “Ronnie, please, don’t bother her.”

Veronica sulks, scraping the old scuffed linoleum floor with her pointy white heels. “I wasn’t trying to bother anyone...”

Mary comes to the rescue: “No, of course not. You didn’t, dear.” She likes Veronica more than Chrissie does. Isn’t she oppressively vapid? Chrissie has asked you more than once. Isn’t she so miserably naïve? Veronica is sweet, sure, but she has no fucking idea what she’s in for. “Babies are wonderful, but they do make things harder, don’t you think? Especially for the mother. You have to be ready to drop everything for them. All your other interests and aspirations.”

“I suppose,” Veronica mumbles. You can tell she’s thinking: What other aspirations?

“But you must be so excited!” You beam up at Veronica. It’s her wedding day, and John’s; it should be happy, it should be optimistic. And you’re learning to like Veronica—less than Mary, but more than Chris—because you know that’s the best thing for John.

She instinctively rests her hand on the swell of her belly; or, rather, where it must be somewhere beneath all those heaps of satin and tulle. Great Aunt Zofia’s glare intensifies. “I’m scared to death, to tell you the truth.”

“Why?!” Mary cries.

“I’m so afraid something will happen to him.” Veronica’s voice is soft, her blue eyes glassy. She’s certain the baby is a boy, claims she had some sort of dream about it. “There’s a lot of bad luck going around for us, isn’t there? And my mother lost four babies. Any time he stops moving, I worry constantly until my next appointment. I haven’t felt anything in days, and I just...I just...” She trails off, staring vacantly across the crowded church basement. She’s trying not to cry, you realize.

“I can try to check for you,” you offer. “If it would make you feel better.”

“Really?” Veronica sounds hopeful, but guardedly so.  

“This is embarrassing, but I carry my nurse kit almost everywhere I go now. That’s why I brought my huge blue purse even though it doesn’t match the dress. You know, you can’t be too careful...”

“Yes, who knows when someone will try something idiotic like jogging backwards down the stairs?” Freddie muses. Roger lobs a pierogi at him. Great Aunt Zofia wheezes out a disgusted huff and crosses her veiny, wrinkled arms over her sagging chest.

“I have a stethoscope,” you continue. “I can’t guarantee I’ll find a heartbeat, but I’ll give it a try if that would help.”

“Would you, Y/N?” Veronica clutches for John’s hand, and he lets her take it without any resistance; but he doesn’t seem to know how to comfort her. He has the same dazed look on his face that he has a lot these days, the same look that Bri and Freddie sometimes get: like they’re on autopilot, like they’re actively filtering through brainwaves to fish out any that wander astray. Roger lands a kiss on your bare shoulder and pitches you a playful smirk, his I’m so proud of my too-fucking-smart girlfriend smirk.  

You grab your purse from beneath the table. “Does God’s house have a cozy private spot somewhere?”

Veronica leads you, Mary, and Chrissie to a small unoccupied room that is used (how pertinently) as the church nursery. The pink wallpaper is dotted with waddling ducklings, cloud-shaped sheep leaping over fences, smiling suns and winged cartoonish angels. Veronica settles into a faded blue couch, and Mary and Chris help her shove aside the massive plumes of her wedding dress to reveal the plain shift she’s wearing underneath. She’s over five months along now, and her entirely unremarkable bump seems colossal on her delicate frame.

You pop the headset into your ears and press the chestpiece against Veronica’s unyielding belly, gliding it over the pearly shift as you try different positions.

“Anything?” Mary asks anxiously.

“It’s not bloody instant, Mary!” Chrissie snaps. “Be quiet so she can listen.”

“No need to be cranky—”

“You can’t find a heartbeat, can you?” Veronica says, her voice quivering. “Oh god...”

“Found it,” you announce. You hold the chestpiece in place as you yank the headset off and pass it to Veronica.

She gapes at you. “You’re just saying that so I’ll stop worrying, aren’t you?”

“Hear for yourself.”

Veronica takes the headset and listens, closing her eyes as the rapid-fire and rhythmic swishing of her child’s heartbeat floods through her ears. “Oh,” she breathes, beaming. “There he is.”

“That’s incredible!” Mary trills. “Can I hear too, Veronica? Whenever you’re finished...”

Mary listens, and Chrissie does too, and then you all help touch up Veronica’s hair and makeup before you head back to the reception. The cake is due to be cut in twelve minutes. As you smooth the short train on her dress, Veronica turns back to you.

“Do you think I’m a bad person?” she asks timidly, hugging her belly. “You know...for this.”

“That’s something I’ve always liked about nursing. So many jobs require sorting out who’s right and wrong, casting judgment, assigning punishment. There’s no weighing of the moral scales in medicine. It doesn’t matter if a patient is trustworthy, deceitful, good, bad, worthy, undeserving, if they disappoint you, if they’re the ones who hurt themselves. You treat everyone, you heal everyone. And I would like to keep that part of myself for as long as I can.” You smile at Veronica. “But, for the record, no. I don’t think you’re a bad person at all.”

She sighs in relief, untethering an anchor she hadn’t even known she’d been dragging around by her throat. “Thank you,” she whispers, tears snaking down her powdered ivory cheeks.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Come on.”

“How do you feel about marble lion statues? You know, the ones at the end of long, winding driveways. Rich people’s driveways. Mansion driveways. Or do you prefer gargoyles?”

“Roger.”

He groans, grins, presses his right fist into your palm. You measure the force with your mind, with your muscle memory. He’s stronger than he was yesterday, the day before, last week. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Rog teases. “You’ve got a soft spot for damaged people. Helpless people. That’s why you warmed to Brian so quickly. He was lying there all gaunt and jaundiced and terrified, and you just couldn’t resist, you just had to make sure all his wildest dreams came true.”

“I have a soft spot for self-destructive musicians who end up in hospitals, evidently.” Your gaze cruises over the scar on Roger’s forearm where the surgeons popped his bones back into place, stabilized them, stitched the ragged gore closed. You hate looking at it; you hate reminders of how mortal Roger really is.

“I want lions,” Rog decides. “For the driveway of our eventual mansion. I like the Leo connection.”

“And the Queen crest connection.”

His grin widens, toothy and radiant. “See, I knew you were the love of my life.”

“Come on. Again.”

He winces this time. “Doesn’t hurt a bit.”

“Uh huh. I bet.” You’ve slathered his fresh blisters with numbing antiseptic ointment, iced his arm, administered pain medicine, allowed him the constant sips of alcohol necessary for him to work, to drum, to sleep. But he still hurts. You imagine he hurts all the fucking time.

It’s August now, and Queen is recording their fourth album at Rockfield Farm. You and Roger are sitting by the pool as Freddie splashes around in the clear chlorine-smelling water trying to get John’s attention. John, meanwhile, is lounging on an inflatable raft, wearing black sunglasses and most likely asleep. Brian circles the pool snapping photos with your Canon F-1.

“I have a plan,” Roger informs you as he starts his stretches without prompting. He knows the drill, even if he likes to be difficult about it.

“By all means, enlighten me.”

“Fred’s thing, the weird one. It has a name now.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah. Bohemian Rhapsody.”

“Oh, it’s perfect!” You try to stay out of the band’s business decisions as much as possible; it’s not your expertise, and it’s not your place, and there are already a few too many creative chefs in that kitchen. Still, you love when they share their magic with you. “Eccentric, whimsical, exhilarating. Just like the song. Just like Queen.”

“I’m so glad you approve. We’re going to make sure it’s the first single off the album. And I know exactly what song’s going to be on the B-side. Freddie and Bri don’t know yet, but I do.”

“Sounds like they’re going to murder you when they find out.”

“I’ll convince them.” His grin is crafty, daring. “Picture it: you’ve just finished the incomparable experience that is Bohemian Rhapsody. You’re a newly converted Queen enthusiast. What could possibly come next? You flip the record over. And the virile, screeching, pure rock and roll passion of I’m In Love With My Car is there to greet you.”

“Oh my god, Roger.” You shake your head in mock mourning. “They actually are going to murder you.”

“Listen, love, BoRhap is going to be a hit. I can feel it.”

“Sure,” you agree lukewarmly. You want to be supportive, you really do. But disappointment stings more than resignation.

“It will be,” Roger maintains, unmovable. “And it’ll sell mountains and mountains of singles...and with my song on the B-side, I’ll get half the royalties. Which means we’ll get half the royalties.”

“Which is how we end up with the hypothetical mansion.”

“I’m being serious.” Roger picks up his mini barbell weights from the water-splattered concrete and begins his bicep curls, flinching each time he lifts his right fist.

“Rog—”

“I’m fine,” he insists. “I’m going to make this happen. I’m going to get rich so I can provide for my family. You know about that, you know it’s on my list. And my family includes you now.”

“I don’t need a mansion, Roger.” I just need you. You stare at his right arm worriedly. “Are you sure—?”

“I’m fine!” he shouts, and you recoil. Brian peers over from where he’s taking pictures of blooming purple foxgloves. Instantly, Roger regrets it. “I’m sorry,” he says, setting down the barbells and cradling your face with his rough, bandaged hands. “I have to be fine, you know? I don’t have a choice. If I can’t play, I can’t be in the band. If I leave, John will leave too, and that’ll be the end of everything. Or worse, John will break the pact and stay and they’ll find a new drummer and forget all about me. Sail off into some blissful new future. And where will I be? Moping as I drag myself back to dental school? Becoming a freaking lab biologist? Resigning myself to being some excruciatingly ordinary bloke, someone who climbed just far enough out of Cornwall to know everything he’s missing out on?”

You try to imagine who Roger would be without the band, but you can’t. You’ve never known a pre-Queen Roger. “No,” you say, amused. “You’ll never be just some ordinary bloke. You’re too brilliant, too determined. Even if you do have a dodgy arm.”

He kisses you, and you can feel his lips curling into a smile beneath yours. “So you’ll let me buy you a mansion.”

“If you get I’m In Love With My Car on the B-side, and BoRhap is a hit, and Freddie and Bri don’t smother you with a pillow in your sleep...yes, you can buy me a mansion. Buy us a mansion.”

He winks, his sapphire eyes glinting in the late-summer sunlight. “Watch out, baby. I get everything I want eventually.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“It’s done,” John tells the others as he passes out copies of his new song, the second he’s ever written. There are only four sheets of crisp white paper; as you watch from the studio couch, you wonder what the song is about, why he didn’t mention it to you.

“It’s done?!” Brian yelps. “What do you mean, it’s done?! Nothing’s ever done after the first pass! That’s how it works, that’s how it always works, someone suggests something and then we all dice it and slice it and flip it around and stitch it back together like the world’s most maniacal surgeons, and then, only then, maybe, it’s done.”

You glance up from where you’re sewing an eleventh patch onto Roger’s jeans. “Must we disparage the medical profession?”

“Sorry, love,” Roger tosses to you with a laugh.                          

“It’s done,” John repeats.

“Deaky, darling,” Freddie ventures gently. “We should endeavor to keep our minds open to collaboration—”

“Oh, should we, Fred?!” Bri exclaims. “How extraordinary, you never seem to encourage collaboration when it’s your song on the cutting floor!”

“Okay space boy, you listen here—”

“‘I’m happy at home’?!” Roger reads, revolted. “We’re not the bloody Bee Gees, Deaks!”

John explains measuredly and patiently, as if to a child: “That’s the way it goes. We record it as it is or not at all.”

“That’s not how we do things,” Brian mutters, deep frown lines chiseled through his face as he scans the lyrics.

“Then just fill the album with your and Fred’s songs like you always do, I’m sure that’ll keep me and Roger loyal.”

Brian glares at John. John stares back stoically, his eyes like steel. Brian looks to Roger for support; Roger lights a cigarette and pretends not to notice.

“Darling, please, you’re not being reasonable!” Freddie pleads.

“I need it.” John turns to Roger now. “I need it to stay the way it is.”

Rog just watches him for a while, exhales smoke, shrugs. “Okay,” he says at last.

“Okay?!” Brian howls. “What do you mean, okay?!”

“He said he needs it,” Roger replies simply.

Bri throws his hands into the air. “Bleeding christ! ‘He needs it.’ What rubbish! Do something, Fred!”

“Oh relax, darling.” Freddie sashays to the microphone and points to Brian’s Red Special. “Let’s try it out.”

“But—!”

Roger claps Brian on the back as he trots by him towards the drum kit. “Come on, Bri. Big smiles. Just picture the nice shiny pounds from all those album sales plinking into your bank account. You’ll have fifty Christmas hams at the wedding, one for every guest.”

You listen passively from the couch as they rehearse, trying not to let on that you’re paying attention, trying not to overstep. But you can’t help being struck by the lyrics, feeling the somberness of Freddie’s voice and John’s tentative notes on the electric piano slink into your bones; because it sounds so familiar, because it echoes so many things that John has told you.

When Queen takes a mid-afternoon break and John slips into the kitchen for a Coke, you follow him.

“Hey John?”

“Yeah.” He rests his hands on the dining room table. They’re sturdy and unmarred and completely unlike Roger’s; and you aren’t sure why you notice this, but you do.

“I completely understand if I’m being intrusive, and if I am please just tell me to shut up and I will.”

He chuckles. “You’re never intrusive. Go ahead.”

“I was just wondering...who is You’re My Best Friend about?”

Now his smile evaporates. “No one in particular,” he says briskly. “It’s just a song. Just something to put on the album. Maybe a single one day. A soulless royalties grab.”

That seems unlikely. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He takes a swig of Coke, peers down at the table, traces swirls of centuries-old oak with his fingertips.

“It’s just...you know...well...it kind of sounded like...maybe it was about me.”

He looks up. And for the first time, John levels some of his infamous, razored words at you: “Don’t be such a fucking narcissist.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Two days later, John doesn’t apologize. But he smiles at you over tea, offers to clean off the fingerprints of strawberry jelly that Roger left on the Canon, splashes you from the pool as you sunbathe beneath lapis August skies. And you agree, wordlessly and unconditionally, to forgive him. Because John is your best friend, whether or not you’re still his.

Nine weeks later, Bohemian Rhapsody is released as a single. (And, as promised, Roger ensures that I’m In Love With My Car is on the B-side.)

Twelve weeks later, Bohemian Rhapsody reaches the #1 spot on the UK Singles Chart, and remains there for over two months.

Fifteen weeks later, A Night At The Opera becomes the #1 album in the UK.

Fifteen weeks later, Queen’s future is suddenly crystal clear.

[tempesrature]

50 Wordless Ways to Say “I Love You” [END]

Pairing: Ride or Die | Logan x Ellie Summary: A highlight reel of the most important moments of their life. A/N: Highly suggest reading this in order (all even numbers for Logan). @troublemakerinspace @choicesarehard

#50 Buying them a special treat when you go shopping.

“Troublemaker, are you busy?”

Ellie turns to look at the door from her vanity table, a smile pulling at her lips when she sees Logan peeking into the empty bridal room. She stands from her chair, the sleeves of her silk robe fluttering around her arms, as she meets him halfway.

“Oh, I don’t know if you’ve heard Logan but I’m actually supposed to get married today.”

Logan chuckles as he stands before her, his hands inside the pockets of his black dress pants, and he lets his eyes roam Ellie’s body. Seemingly looking at her as if it’s the first time. It’s still about a good hour or so before she starts putting on her wedding garb but knew that already.

“Yeah? He’s a lucky man then.”

Ellie laughs as she reaches up and encircles her arms around his neck. He settles his hand on her hips and they stand there for a moment, swaying a little to a song only they can hear.

“So what brings you here?” Ellie asks teasingly, her eyes never leaving his face. “I doubt Ximena allowed you to leave your room willingly.”

Logan chuckles a little. Ximena, as his best man, has been a complete lifesaver for Logan throughout the wedding planning. Practically jumping in and saving the day when things got particularly stressful with the vendors. But Ximena is the type of woman that rules with an iron fist and she’ll be damned if anything goes wrong so close to the ceremony.

“I got it covered don’t worry,” Logan winks before he takes a small step back from her. “I have something to give you. Well…somethings.”

Ellie’s eyes widen, immediately catching his meaning. “Logan you did not.”

“I did,” Logan grins as he reaches into his pocket for the first item. “First, something old. Here you go.”

Ellie lets out a small gasp, reaching out for the familiar silver spark plug necklace as tears start to prick her eyes. She looks up at him, her heart squeezing at the memory of when he gave it to her, and Logan grins brilliantly at her. She chuckles with a nod before she puts the necklace around her neck. 

“Next something new,” Logan reaches up to the first button on his shirt and slowly starts to pop them open. Ellie’s eyes widen in shock before they turn mischievous. 

“Oh wow, I’m getting a show now?” Ellie teases and Logan shakes his head with a grin as he pops the last button just below his heart. He pulls back the shirt on his left shoulder and Ellie lets out a loud gasp, immediately stepping forward to let her fingers run on the black ink on his skin. 

“Logan!” She exclaims before she touches her own left shoulder, the design of the feathers identical and matching. “You got a tattoo of my feather?”

“Yeah, X did it too. Her wedding gift to me,” Logan explains with a proud smile and Ellie chuckles weakly as she shakes her head. The tears are now flowing freely down her face, her heart aching so wonderfully it feels as if she’ll burst.

“I’m so glad you did this before I put on my makeup,” Ellie comments as she reaches up to wipe some of the tears away.

“Yeah, that was part of the plan trouble,” Logan laughs, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “Next, something borrowed but I don’t have it here with me.”

Ellie furrows her eyebrows in confusion but Logan merely smiles.

“It’s your mother’s veil on her wedding day, your dad found it in the back of her closet and it’s with your bridesmaids.” 

Ellie lets out a choked laugh, another batch of tears gathering in her eyes as she leans her head on his chest. Absolutely overwhelmed with the feelings of happiness, love and gratitude for the man before her. 

“Logan…” She sniffs, wrapping her arms around her torso. “I don’t think I can take more, I really will burst.”

Logan lets out a loud laugh, his head tilting back from the force of it before he wraps his arms around her shoulders. “Not yet Troublemaker, there’s still the last one. Something blue.”

He untangles himself from her hold and takes her hand in his, intertwining their fingers together as he pulls her to the window facing the façade of the venue. She follows obediently, her heart thumping with excitement and curiosity on what could he have possibly planned for something blue. He looks at her with a grin before he leans on the window sill and points down. Her eyes follow to where he’s pointing and when she catches sight of the brilliant blue, a loud gasp escapes her.

“Ellie hi!” Vaughn, who is now wearing his groomsman suit, waves up at her with a wide grin before he slaps his hand on the hood of the Devore. “Doesn’t she look good in blue?”

“You painted the Devore blue?!” Ellie exclaims as she turns to Logan with wide eyes. Her heart squeezing in ache so tight, it hurts. She knows how important the Devore is to him. After all, it’s the only possession that he has meticulously taken care of during all these years. Even in the lowest points of Logan’s life, he has always made sure to keep the Devore safe, well-maintained and always always in it’s iconic yellow and black stripes. 

“You’ve made me so happy Ellie and I know you’ll continue to make me happy,” Logan says as he takes her hands into his and squeezes tight. “For so long I’ve only ever had the Devore, the only thing I was willing to risk my life for…but then I met you and look at what I have now. The friends and family I’ve gained throughout the years. The little black tabby that’s probably giving your bridesmaid a headache,” Ellie lets out a choked laugh with a nod and Logan tilts her chin to his as he wipes away the tears running down her eyes. “And look at the girl I’ll marry and call my wife,” Logan gives her a shaky smile and lifts her hand to his lips, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “So forever Troublemaker, that’s the promise I’ll make with you today. Then, I’ll drive us away in the Devore—just like the first time.”

Ellie whimpers as she nods and pulls him into a tight and crushing hug, burying her face into the crook of his neck, before she pulls back and takes his face in between her hands to pull him down for a kiss. 

“I love you Logan,” Ellie confesses, wiping away the tears that fall down his eyes. 

“I love you too Ellie,” Logan confesses, his voice choked and strained as he places a kiss on her forehead and he squeezes his eyes shut. “So much.”

“Alright Logan. That’s enough. We need to get you into your suit jacket,” Ximena calls out from the door before she approaches the two holding a drink of matcha bubble tea in her hand. “Sweetie here. Logan told me you desperately needed this,” Ximena scoffs, shaking her head when she realizes that she’s just been trapped as she turns to Logan with an amused smile. “Is this why you wanted me out of the room so much?”

Ellie gasps, turning to Logan with a bright smile who merely winks at her before he turns to Ximena with a pleading smile as his arms tighten around Ellie. 

“Can’t I get ten more minutes with my wife?”

Ximena chuckles softly as she places a hand on her hips. “She isn’t your wife yet.”

Logan sighs at the thought before he turns back to look down at Ellie, smiling brilliantly. “Doesn’t feel like it though.”

Ellie chuckles as she places a hand on his chest and gently pushes him back. “Go, I’ll see you later.”

“Mm,” Logan reluctantly agrees and steps back but not before he brushes his lips against her forehead in a loving and soft kiss. “See you there Troublemaker.”

Ellie watches the both of them leave the room with a soft smile and when the door closes behind him, her hand instinctively goes up to cradle the spark plug in her palm as she grips it tight. Maybe if she grips it tight enough, she can trap all the emotions of the day—happiness, love, excitement, bliss—into the necklace itself so it’ll become a time capsule of this day. 

So when she looks back at the pictures and videos of their friends and family on her wedding day, all she needs to do is grip the necklace tight and she’ll be brought back to the moment where her best friend, her fiancé and the love of her life promised her forever. 

And in a few hours she will say the words that she somehow knew she would say from the moment she realized that she fell in love with the boy with the yellow getaway car: 

I do.

[shotgun--rider]

Fake It Till You Make It - Two

A Sam x Reader Series

PART TWO

Y/N knows it’s a bad idea to try telling her family that she’s dating Sam Winchester. But it’s just for the week of her sister’s wedding, and it’s all fake anyway. What could go wrong?

Word Count: 4100

Warnings: plus size! Reader, fatphobic, & diet comments, Y/N’s family are demons, allusions to drug use

A/N: Significantly more fluffity fluff than I intended this part to have. So enjoy it!

Aunt Abaddon’s garden, like the rest of the house, was oversized and vaguely vintage-designed and expertly manicured by underpaid grounds staff. It was less of a garden and more of a courtyard-esque mingling space, really, and it was currently filled with all of the people you would have been perfectly content to never see again. 

Involuntarily, your hand tightened around Sam’s, and he responded immediately with a reassuring swipe of his thumb over the inside of your wrist. You tugged nervously at your sundress with your free hand for a moment, trying to scope out the least disastrous location to aim for, and winced as your mother immediately came barrelling toward you. 

You dropped Sam’s hand just in time to catch her as she squeezed you (too hard) in an over-the-top hug, squealing in your ear at some kind of bat-radio frequency. “Oh, thank god you’re here. We were beginning to worry, weren’t we, honey?” She beckoned to your father, who sidled up with an awkward grimace and an untouched glass of something very pink in his hand. 

Her hands came up to frame your face, squeezing your cheeks, and she tilted her head critically. “You look...pale. Doesn’t she look pale?” Her eyes rolled impatiently. “You’re not sticking to the keto, are you?”

You exhaled heavily, pulling your face back out of her grip and suddenly feeling very small. “No, Mom.” You had a whole speech you’d delivered many times to other people about how diet culture was all bullshit anyway, but your mother always had a way of making you feel like your words would be wasted if you bothered to speak. 

“How many times do I have to tell you, Y/N? Your life could be so much better--you could look like Ruby, you know, if you put a little effort in. She’s tiny, and now she’s getting married.”

“That’s because she survived on crack in college, Mom,”

Your mother rolled her eyes, waving it off. “Well everybody has to have something,”

Your mouth tightened into a thin line, her words needling into you the way they always did. “Okay, Mom,” you said tiredly. “Whatever you say,”

She hmmed at you like she didn’t believe you, but let go and turned her attention over your shoulder. “Who is this?” Her eyebrows were making an escape toward her hairline and you couldn’t deny that it was a little bit satisfying watching her tilt her head up trying to look at Sam. 

“Mom, this is my boyfriend, Sam.” The lie came out smoother than it had the last time you tried it, but the words still felt like they wanted to stick in your throat.

“Mrs. L/N,” Sam extended his hand toward her, but she didn’t take it.

“Y/N, how did this happen?” she asked dismissively, waving at Sam on the word ‘this’ like he was something inanimate. 

Sam offered her a polite laugh, his hand coming to slide around your waist and tug you into his side, warm through the thin material of your dress. “Uh, the usual way?”

Your mother sniffed, crossing her arms as she looked between the two of you. “The house is all her aunt’s, you know; Y/N doesn’t have money.”

Right. Because the only way you could bring home a good-looking boyfriend (or any boyfriend at all, apparently) was if he was looking for money. You cleared your throat, your hands twisting together anxiously. “He’s a lawyer, Mom, he doesn’t need money,”

You weren’t actually sure if Sam had all that much money, given that Dean was always talking about all the pro bono cases he took on, but it would hopefully shut your mother up.

“A lawyer? But--”

“Yes,” Sam cut in roughly, “and I consider myself very lucky to be with her.” He dropped a kiss to the top of your hair, selling your relationship with more ease than you’d expected, and you focused on reminding yourself that was what it was--two friends selling a lie. 

Your mother sputtered indignantly, unable to come up with any further response, and you took the opportunity to slide off to the side, aiming for the shock of blonde hair you were fairly certain belonged to your most tolerable cousin, Meg. To your surprise, Sam followed without letting go of your waist, though you weren’t really sure what you had expected. You were trying to look like a couple, after all. You just had to remember not to get used to it.

“Sup?” Meg half-slurred when you reached her, immediately holding out a glass of what was probably very alcoholic punch. You took it from her hastily, mostly to keep her from spilling it on herself, and sighed. 

“It’s barely three o’clock, Meg,”

“That’s almost five,” she returned cheerfully. “You didn’t think I was gonna do this shit show sober, did you?”

“I don’t blame you,” you mumbled, cautiously sniffing the glass. It smelled overpoweringly of alcohol, and you figured someone--possibly Meg--had spiked it well beyond the original content.

“So, who’s the hottie?” Her eyes sparkled as she looked up at Sam. “And where do I get one?”

Sam could tell she was harmless, and he laughed easier this time, letting the most-of-the-way-drunk woman tease him. It was kind of sweet to watch, if in a mildly alarming way. Meg had been your only solace growing up, but she’d lived too far away to be more than a buffer at big family gatherings. Still, you knew how she could be, and you weren’t too confident in leaving him alone with her. 

Unfortunately, it didn’t look like you were going to have much choice. A claw-like hand was suddenly digging into your upper arm, and you turned to meet your sister’s cold eyes. “You need to come with me,” she announced, leaving you barely enough time to set the glass you’d been holding down on a table before she was physically hauling you out of the conversation. Sam shot you a slightly concerned glance, but Meg immediately demanded his attention back, and you allowed your surprisingly strong sister to pull you back toward the house.

“What do you want, Ruby?”

The expression on her face was equal parts annoyed and vindictive. “You missed the fitting for your dress. I figured I had better make you do this now,” she sighed, “in case we have to alter it again. Not like you seem to care,” she muttered. 

“Ruby, I already told you I couldn’t get off work--”

“Whatever,” she cut you off. “It’s whatever. I just thought maybe my maid of honor would put in a little effort, you know?”

You gritted your teeth in silence, knowing nothing you could say would change her mind. Everything in Ruby’s life that went wrong, from the time she was a child, was always someone else’s fault. Somehow, neither of your parents had thought to correct that assumption before she grew up and took it into the world with her, but, given the way your entire family was, it shouldn’t have surprised you. 

Following her reluctantly into a sitting room on the second floor, you watched Ruby sift through a standing rack of silvery-gray dresses. None of them were particularly flattering, and you had no doubt that whatever she’d picked for you would be especially ugly, in her passive-aggressive way. It wasn’t like you’d expected a pretty bridesmaid’s dress, because, really, weren’t ugly dresses the stereotype anyway? Still, it was the same kind of thing she’d done to you since you were kids, and it left a sour taste in your mouth. 

Ruby handed you a mass of slippery fabric, and you held it up hesitantly, a cautious sensation of relief in your chest as you realized that it didn’t seem overtly horrible at first glance. 

“Hurry up,” your sister was waving at you, “put it on!”

You huffed, walking behind the conveniently located changing screen with a still-nervous pit in your stomach. You hated trying on clothes, from the time you were a teenager shopping with your mother, and she’d made comments about how the clothes you’d picked would look better in a smaller size. Even now, shopping alone, it was still frustrating and embarrassing to look in the changing room mirror and realize that you looked nothing like what you’d hoped you would when you were picking items off the rack. 

“I’m not wearing the right bra for this,” you warned Ruby, noting that the dress had a plunging back. 

“I figured, it’s whatever for now,” she said carelessly, then, “So how long have you and Sam been together? He’s new, right?”

“Three months,” you returned automatically, recalling the date you’d agreed on in the car as you shimmied your hips into the slinky fabric. It was a bit too clingy for your tastes, but that was what you’d packed extra shapewear for. 

“Huh,” Ruby mused from somewhere beyond the changing screen. You could hear her feet pacing softly, and you didn’t have to see her to know she had her hands on her hips and a smirk on her lips. “That’s like a new record for you. What’d you do, anyway?”

“Do what?” you grunted, twisting your arms behind you like the world’s most painful pretzel trying to grab the zipper. 

“Keep his attention. I mean, come on, Y/N, he’s gorgeous,”

“Why do you care?” you shot back. “You’re getting married,”

You could almost hear Ruby’s too-casual shrug. “I was just curious. I know he’s not staying for the sex. Dick said you never fucked him,”

“You talked about me?” you practically shrieked. It wasn’t enough that your bitchy, entitled sister was marrying your god awful ex, they had to bring you back into it too?

“Duh,” Ruby giggled. “Wait, are you still a virgin? I mean, it wouldn’t surprise me--”

Finally wrestling the zipper into submission, you lifted the hem above your bare feet and stormed out from behind the changing screen. “No,” you snapped out. “Do you like it or not?”

“God, Y/N, I was just kidding,” Ruby rolled her eyes. “You need to calm down. And, yeah, the dress is fine. Just try not to eat anything before Saturday,”

You just stared at her, the brief anger flaming through your chest dying as hurt welled up instead. “Every time,” you whispered. “You do this every time,”

“Oh, quit being so sensitive.” Ruby waved you off. “Hey, remember you’re picking up the cake and the flowers tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, no problem,” you returned hollowly, watching her bounce out into the hallway, leaving you standing there in an ugly bridesmaid dress, defeated expertly in the way she always knew how. 

And you had promised yourself that you weren’t going to let them make you cry, but your eyes were stinging and your chest felt tight. For what felt like the millionth time, you wondered what it would take for any one of them to actually act like they cared about you. 

You stripped off the dress mechanically, hanging it carefully back up to avoid Ruby throwing a fit, noticing as you did that every other dress on the rack was tailored to accommodate tiny women with tiny waists. The rest of the bridesmaids were Ruby’s crowd of friends, and you knew you were only part of this because it would have looked bad to not include her sister. 

Blowing out your breath, you put your own clothes back on and shook your head. This was a standard day in your house. Last Thanksgiving had definitely been worse. So why are you still letting them get to you? You snapped at yourself. Get over it, Y/N.

You knew that you should be going back outside to Ruby’s little pre-wedding garden party to rescue Sam, who was probably in well over his head by now, but you couldn’t stomach the thought of dealing with any more of it right now. Before you could change your mind, your feet were pointing toward the third floor staircase, and you were making a beeline for your bedroom. 

“There she is!”

You stopped in your tracks at the sound of his voice, swearing a blue streak inside your head. What on earth had you done in your life to deserve this kind of brutal cosmic karma, anyway? Turning slowly, you let out a resigned sigh. “Dick,”

Your stupid ex-boyfriend was smiling with all of his perfect white teeth, hands slid into the pockets of a pair of very nice dress slacks as he meandered down the hallway toward you. “It’s been a long time, Y/N,”

“Best two years of my life,” you confirmed with a nod, well past the point of being nice, even if you knew your entire family would inevitably end up hearing about you sassing the groom. 

He laughed as though you’d just told the funniest joke. “Charming as ever, dearest. You know, I still have a few days before I’m married. What do you say?”

“Ruby would kill you,” you tried, taking a step backward. 

Dick arched an arrogant brow. “Hardly, I’m sure she’d encourage it.”

“Thanks but no thanks,” you said flatly, your skin crawling at the mere thought of him. “Please go somewhere far away from me now,”

“It’s a public hallway,”

“Just leave me alone,” you sighed, turning away resolutely to resume marching toward the stairs. 

“Alright, alright!” Dick muttered. “Damn, I’m glad I chose the other one,”

His words shouldn’t have mattered, but they cut into you anyway. You slammed your bedroom door behind you with tears welling up in your eyes, kicking your shoes off across the room and marching to the bathroom halfway between misery and rage. See? Even slimy Dick fucking Roman doesn’t want you. 

You stared down your reflection in the bathroom mirror, all anxious bitten lips and red, teary eyes. You looked, in your personal opinion, a little bit deranged, and huffed out a breath, trying to control yourself before you went into full-blown ugly sobbing. That would just make you look like a mess for dinner. 

You weren’t sure how long you’d just been leaning on the sink, staring blankly at the outdated gold faucet, when you heard the door in the bedroom open. You swallowed hard, thankful you’d shut the bathroom door behind you, and debated between silently trying to pretend you weren’t there at all and just shouting for Ruby to get lost. 

“Y/N?” 

No, that was Sam’s voice, and that sent a whole new wave of panic through your body. This wasn’t Sam’s mess to clean up, this was so not what he had signed up for, hell, he’d barely signed up at all. What was any halfway decent person supposed to say when Dean and Charlie started ganging up on them?

A soft tap sounded on the bathroom door, and your voice came out slightly strangled as you bargained for time. “Yeah, be out in a sec!” You swiped your hands under your eyes hastily, blinking in the mirror like that was somehow supposed to make you look less emotionally flattened. 

Sam, evidently, wasn’t buying it. “Y/N, can I come in?”

Your emotions had been all over the place for the past week in the anxiety of having to come here and deal with this, and, apparently, just the sound of Sam’s concerned voice was enough to have tears welling up in your eyes again. Damn it. You pressed your quivering lips together, staring up at the ceiling like that was going to convince the tears to drain back into your eyeballs. 

The bathroom door opened behind you, and you opened your mouth on a gasping breath to say something just as you felt Sam wrap his arms around you from behind, pulling you back against him carefully without choking your neck against his forearms. The contact and gentle support broke the last thread on your tenuous control and you let your head fall forward as a sob wracked your body.

“Whoa, hey, what happened?” Sam sounded surprised at your sudden reaction, but he didn’t let go, just tucked you more firmly into his embrace and held on as your body shook with the sudden pain you hadn’t even acknowledged in your chest until now. “I got you,” he whispered just above your hair. “I got you, Y/N,”

You followed pure instinct, wiggling around in the circle of his arms until you could bury your face in his chest instead, and Sam let you, automatically adjusting to make sure you stayed tucked against him. He was warm and solid and safe, and he felt like home in a way you’d never experienced before, a physical barrier between you and the world. 

That thought jarred you out of your mini-breakdown, because you couldn’t afford to think like that. This wasn’t a rom-com and just because you had a stupid crush on Sam before this whole thing started didn’t mean you could let it go to your head. You pulled back from him slightly, wincing as you noticed the damp spot you’d left on his shirt. Your nose wrinkled, and you grimaced as you ducked out of his arms to grab several of the Kleenex on the back of the toilet tank. “Sorry,”

Sam had that look of adorably genuine puzzlement on his face again as he watched you blow your nose, unfazed like he couldn’t figure out why you were saying what you were saying.

You gestured vaguely with one hand at yourself, at the bathroom. “This shouldn’t be your problem, Sam,”

“Y/N,” he frowned, catching you in the web of those hazel eyes that somehow never failed to take your breath away. “I’m right where I want to be. I told you I had your back, remember?”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head wearily as embarrassment and frustration began to sink in. “This is so stupid,” you whispered turning your body away from him more than you really needed to toss the tissue from your crumpled fist into the trash can. 

“If it makes you upset, it’s not stupid, Y/N,” Sam argued softly. “You don’t deserve that from people,”

You paused at that, staring at him awkwardly as you tried to come up with a response. Finally, you settled on the truth. “I’m pretty sure no one has ever said that to me,”

“I’ll say it more often,” Sam reached out to you, his hand landing on your upper arm to gently pull you out of the bathroom. The sun was starting to set through the big west-facing window, and you let yourself fall back onto the bed with a groan as you remembered that the night wasn’t over yet. 

Sam walked over to peer down at you on the mattress, standing over you with an expression on his face that almost made you burst out laughing. “What?”

“Dinner,” you huffed, throwing an arm over your eyes for a brief moment. “I forgot they were going to expect us for dinner,”

“Do you want to go?” Sam raised an eyebrow, and you almost shot into a sitting position at the question. 

“What? No. Why are you even asking me?”

Sam shrugged, sitting down next to you easily and lacing his fingers together in his lap. “If you don’t want to go, then let’s not go,”

Turning to look at him with a smirk, you propped your head up on one hand. “Sam Winchester, are you suggesting we play hooky?”

His face split into a wide grin, his eyes dancing as if to say why not? “I’ll tell them I missed my girlfriend, and we can stay up here and leave them all downstairs to be jealous of our functional relationship,”

“Our functional relationship that’s so functional it’s fake?” You were laughing up at him now, and Sam Winchester was going down in your book as the only other person besides Charlie who could completely change your mood in under five minutes. 

Sam pouted at you, some of the light dimming from his face. “Exactly,” he cleared his throat.

“There is one flaw in this plan, though,”

Sam turned, flopping down on his stomach on the mattress beside you and making you bounce slightly. “Hm?”

You batted your eyelashes exaggeratedly at him, making your best puppy face. “I’m hungry.”

Which was how you found yourself creeping down the stairs in your bare feet with your hand in Sam’s even though nobody was watching, on a mission to raid the fridge. “I didn’t know you had it in you, Mr. Big-shot Lawyer,” you teased, peering briefly down the hallway to check that it was empty before continuing.

Sam shot you a mock-hurt look. “I’m in human rights law!”

You stifled a fit of giggles, cursing yourself for turning into a girlish idiot around him. “If Aunt Abi catches me down here, she will actually kill me,” you said instead, your voice conversationally sarcastic. 

“I think she’s still fighting with your uncle,” Sam shrugged, following you into the thankfully empty kitchen. “What do you want?”

“Ooh, did Uncle Fergus show up high again? And there should be a bunch of crap in there, just grab whatever.”

Sam blinked at you, holding open the fridge. “Why do you sound happy about that?”

You opened the pantry, lifting out a bag of chips. “Because, a, unlike my sister, he doesn’t try to force other people into drug abuse, and b, the fact that everyone hates him more than me is probably the only reason I’m still alive. Oh, grab the brownies!” you added, peering around him into the fridge. 

Sam just shook his head at you, studying you with an expression you weren’t sure how to identify. 

“What? I like brownies,”

He shook his head, hair sliding into his face with the motion, and pulled out both the pan of brownies and a bowl of tossed salad. “Nothing. I’ve just, uh, never met anyone like you before.”

“What, surprisingly well-adjusted?” you asked sarcastically. 

Sam held your gaze over the dishes in his hands. “I was going to say strong,”

You swallowed, glancing down, not sure how to answer. “Okay. Uh, we should probably get out of here. This is enough,”

Thankfully, he let it go, leading the way back upstairs and smiling at the way you burst out laughing as soon as the door was closed and locked behind you. Then, you watched him pull a spare bed sheet out of the bathroom and throw it down on the floor, sitting cross-legged and waiting for you to join him. “Dean used to do this for me,” he said quietly, sticking a fork into the salad bowl. “Sometimes Dad would leave us in motel rooms and Dean would try to make it like a picnic.” He winced. “Couldn’t cook, though. He was eight.”

You laughed softly, reaching out with a fork to pull a mouthful of lettuce from the other side of the salad bowl, your eyes soft as you looked at him. “Tell me more,”

You let Sam keep talking while you both munched on snacks and sprawled out on the floor, listening to the random stories of his childhood and, occasionally, something from law school. His voice was soothing, and you hadn’t realized you were tired until you were suddenly blinking back awake, the room pitch-dark and the thin carpet making your spine complain. 

Still half-asleep and fuzzy headed, you started to sit up, reaching for your phone, and noticed suddenly that something was holding you down. Your thumb grazed the home button, lighting up your phone’s screen enough to see, and you blinked in surprise as you realized that Sam was asleep beside you with his arm slung over your waist. 

A small smile crept on your lips as you studied his sleeping face in the dim blue light, completely at peace. Waking him seemed like a crime you weren’t willing to commit, and if part of you was unwilling to make him let go of you, well, who would ever know? You turned slightly, pillowing your head on one arm, and let your phone turn itself back off as you felt Sam try to pull you closer to him. Your decision made, you told your spine to shove its complaining. You could totally manage one night on the floor. 

--

tags: @vicmc624​,  @thebookisbtr​